Robotech: The Enforcers' War
by GVincent
Summary: Sequel to- "Robotech: The Ashes of Empire" & "Robotech: The Smoldering Earth" The renegade Te'Dak Tohl Zentraedi forces of Supreme General Krymina launch their campaign to seize Zor's Battle Fortress and The Invid Flower of Life on an Earth in internal turmoil in their revolt against The Robotech Masters. Earth forces struggle to unite and to repel this new Zentraedi threat.
1. Foreword

Foreword

Dear Loyal Readers-

Thank you for taking (or sustaining) interest in the third book of my fan-fiction _Robotech_ saga- _Robotech: The Enforcers' War._

For those who might be starting in at this point, this book is actually the convergence and culminating continuation of the stories in my two previous, and also posted books- _Robotech: The Ashes of Empire_ , and _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth._

Though this book as a work of sci-fi/action/adventure stands on its own in those areas, it is also fair to say that reading the first two books will provide background on characters, their motivations, and the conflicts they bring with them into this book that was written assuming some familiarity with the previous two. Proceed as you see fit.

As I did with the foreword to _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ , I'll again warn readers of the pure _Robotech_ faith that I've taken some liberties with the accepted timeline, creating more of an overlap between the presence of the RDF, REF, and Army of The Southern Cross on The United Earth stage. There is also a more contentious relationship between the resident Terran forces which was the focus of _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ , that I will not delve into at this point.

So, let's get started with what I've been building toward for two books- a true "Robotech War" involving the Earth and Zentraedi. _Robotech: The Enforcers' War_ will be the first book of several addressing the subject. Pardon me please as in the last book for incorporating technologies and facets that may not be purely _Robotech_ , but I hope you will find that it helps to create a fuller, richer story.

For my parting word before you begin, I'd like to quote Dr. Dealgood from that great, cult-classic, _Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome_ …

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls- dyin' time's here…."

Enjoy! And as always, constructive criticism and communication is always welcome.

Very Respectfully,

GVincent


	2. Just Another Day

**ROBOTECH:**

 **The Enforcers' War**

By GVincent

"ACHILLES' baneful wrath- resound, O goddess- that impos'd

Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loos'd

From breasts heroic; sent them far, to that invisible cave

That no light comforts, and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave-."

 _The Iliad,_

Homer

 **Chapter One**

 **..Just Another Day…**

"It is a broadly accepted misconception that space is a great void- _unless_ you are speaking merely of a concentration of physical matter per unit of volume."

"When you expand the definition of _content_ to less empirically measurable and quantifiable things than matter- say, the notion of _threat_ or _danger_ for instance- then your perspective on space changes drastically."

"The universe is filled- seems almost to exceed its capacity even- with dangers both modest and immeasurable."

"To say that we were unaware of danger is untrue."

"To say that we were unprepared is grossly unjust."

"To be frank and accurate is to say that we were unaware of and unprepared for the source from which the danger would come."

General Breetai

Military Chief of Staff,

Robotech Defense Forces,

United Earth

 **Deep Space**

The fleet units of the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl stood at station like a constellation whose significance lay not in subjective recognition of a meaningful form in the random clustering of stars associated in some way with the viewer's greater culture, but as the gatherings of metal forms whose purpose was of significance to a culture by well-calculated design.

Zentraedi armies had gathered in such ways for the making of war against the enemies and the subjects of The Robotech Masters for centuries, so it would have been false to say that such a sight had never been seen. Particular and unique to this massing of Zentraedi warships though was the party whose interests they now stood ready to serve.

Like all constellations this one too was disintegrating, though at a comparatively accelerated rate to those composed actually of stars. Stellar constellations vanished over the span of millennia- the movement of the stars that had created them slowly robbing the cultures that had named them of the form that had inspired their naming. Conversely, the engineered constellation that was the fleet of the 7th Grand Army had formed with purpose and had built upon this meaning as its ranks thinned by the leaping of entire units into hyperspace.

First to depart had been the Trendok 145 Robotech Automated Factory. Arguably the core of the constellation by virtue of its sheer size that dwarfed by orders of magnitude even the largest vessels of the fleet, The Factory had long since recovered from the minor damage of an insignificant norghil retaliation to the purging of their armies that had enabled the sudden growth of the 7th Grand Army.

The Trendok 145 had departed, leaping in spacefold across the reaches of the cosmos, not released from the service of the Te'Dak Tohl but rather to a new position from which it could perform its function. It would arrive in a quiet pocket of space in just over a week's time and would remain there in anticipation of serving the children both biological and mechanical of its fertile, technological womb. Vast holds stood filled with the material critical for the conduct of any Zentraedi operation while the cloning facilities of the same Factory were well on their way to producing the next generation of warriors who would succeed those who were sure to fall.

According to a meticulously constructed timetable based on the product of refined planning, the fleet elements had begun less than an hour before to depart as well. Each unit, some as small as task forces comprised of as few a three scout ships while others constituting entire battle groups sortied with specific and well-defined assignments that would build upon one another toward achieving the main and common goal to which all energy in the 7th Grand Army had been dedicated for a Tirolian season and a half.

Now that activities were in execution that heretofore had been only interdependent events on a long list, Sub-General Caldettas still did not feel the governed excitement that he had expected to well up within him at this moment. Moreover as he walked the route from _Artoc_ 's command center to Supreme General Krymina's quarters- a path he could have walked as easily by memory in total darkness- he did not sense that nervous excitement in the officers, warriors, and crew he passed in the corridors either. A stranger to the 7th Grand Army's flagship who had not been privileged to the labors of the past season and a half would likely not have known by the signs and general disposition of those around him that the opening moves of naked insurrection were afoot.

And perhaps this had been by Supreme General Krymina's design.

The commanding officer had removed herself to her quarters shortly after the unceremonious transfer of her flag back to _Artoc_ from the Trendok 145 days earlier, and had scarcely been seen since with the exception of receiving her meals from attendants. The final order of execution initiating the operation had even come to the command center via intercom and with much the same intonation of urgency that the crew and staff might have expected in an order to make a minor change in the fleet's course.

There would be a rise in tension and a change in the prevailing mood of the crew eventuallly. There was no avoiding this, Caldettas knew. For now though, the general atmosphere was an eerie still and quiet.

Sub-General Caldettas made a brief examination of self and a minor adjustment to the line of his uniform tunic and trousers as he arrived at the door of Supreme General Krymina's quarters. He paid no attention to the two armed guards standing post at the door, constant and unaffected by his approach as the corridor's light fixtures overhead, but rather pressed the intercom's buzzer switch without acknowledging their presence.

"Yes?"

Supreme General Krymina's voice was the calm that exemplified the strange stillness that was prevalent throughout the ship. In the single word there was a hint that she not only knew who was at her cabin door but had expected his arrival at precisely that moment.

"Caldettas, Supreme General.", the army's executive officer announced, feeling foolish for the reasons of his perception.

"Enter.", came the reply.

Those unfamiliar with Krymina and her blunt and icy mannerisms might have heard in the reply an invitation whose offer they would have been hesitant to accept.

Caldettas had no such fears though.

The door slid open smoothly with only the softest whisper allowing Caldettas to enter. Given the power afforded to a Zentraedi flag officer- either warrior caste or Te'Dak Tohl,- by The Robotech Masters, it seemed to Caldettas that the living accommodations provided for them was disproportionately modest.

A case in point was Supreme General Krymina's quarters that consisted like the quarters of all senior and commanding officers of a bunk, a private lavatory and cleansing station, a standard workstation, and a locker slightly larger than those provided to the rank and file for the storage of uniforms. Only the addition of a briefing table for six and the additional space required to accommodate it separated the features of the supreme general's quarters from Caldettas's own.

It was at the briefing table, seated at the head, that Caldettas found Krymina- but not alone as he had expected. The Tirolians, Darius and the perpetually infirm Philisto sat in proportionate chairs custom-manufactured for them by the Trendok 145 atop the briefing table.

At Darius's insistence he and Philisto had transferred to _Artoc_ at the same time as Supreme General Krymina's flag. The transition that had required the effort of nearly as many personnel for the quantity of ornate appointments to their living space that they had acquired in their time aboard The Factory.

Sub-General Caldettas had not seen the point in bringing the alien scientists aboard the flagship and had not known that they would be sharing each other's company until almost the moment that _Artoc_ had retracted moorings from its slip in spacedock to depart. Their training and skills lay in the sciences, not military strategy- giving them no function aboard a command ship during combat operations. Given even the _very_ remote possibility that the scientists might be injured or killed before they could perform the services of rendering the conquest of the alien world useful to the Te'Dak Tohl seemed argument enough in Caldettas's mind to leave them far from the battle in the isolated safety of The Factory, and under the guard of the garrison and the battle group that Krymina had detached for its reinforced defense.

Still, Supreme General Krymina had granted the willful Darius's "request", and the Tirolians had become guests of the _Artoc._

More disconcerting to Caldettas than finding Krymina in the company of the openly devious and misanthropic Darius was the fact that Caldettas's thoughts of only moments earlier had seemed to conjure the Tirolians. It was their comparatively opulent style of living that had caused Caldettas to reflect for the first time on just how unpolished the existence of the Zentraedi was when compared with what Darius had referred to on many occasions in his company as "the bare essentials"- and had done so only partially in jest.

On each of these occasions Caldettas's reaction to the self-pitying complaints of the self-indulgent Tirolians had been disgust primarily. Disgust that they had allowed themselves to grow so distracted by things that served no function as to waste their energies harping on the absence of them. The root cause of the moral corruption that had weakened The Robotech Masters to a state of collapse could be seen in these members of the race from whom The Masters had elevated themselves.

This preoccupation with excessive comfort and ornamented surroundings magnified as the egos of The Masters surely would amplify them gave Caldettas insight into the motivations that The Masters had for creating the Zentraedi. It transcended the need to maintain order over a vast empire spanning an entire galaxy and defending themselves from the Invid by meeting them squarely on their own terms.

Caldettas realized through his interactions with Darius and Philisto that The Robotech Masters needed others to do the brute work of governance to allow them the time to indulge in their self-image as gods and to pursue their own appetites.

When he thought of this, Caldettas could not help but feel the burn of indignation toward those he had served without question for so long.

Had Supreme General Krymina not conceived of the idea herself, Caldettas was certain that with his new understanding of these deeply flawed, self-appointed demigods that he would have proposed insurrection himself.  
He had not though. The realization of the problem the resolution had been hers. Caldettas resigned himself to the probability that the best he could hope to do was to facilitate his superior's vision.

Caldettas trusted Krymina's vision as much as he trusted the intuition that had led her to conceive of it. It was those qualities along with Caldettas's facilitation that made her a successful warrior.

He trusted that her intuition made her trust of their Tirolian "allies" a _qualified_ one. Darius in particular, this was likely why Krymina had the Tirolians aboard _Artoc._ Her instincts told her to watch them as surely as Caldettas's told him to suspect every one of their acts. Krymina knew that their labors and creativity were a volatile resource to be closely monitored, and not ones to be trusted if left alone with the manufacturing might of a Robotech Factory.

Darius and Philisto had claimed many times to participate for reasons of revenge, though there was certainly more to them and their motives than that. Unspoken compulsions not withstanding, revenge against The Robotech Masters was a suitable enough cause for Krymina to keep their company.

They were suitable allies so long as either side had a knife to the other's throat.

"- _Ahhh-!_ ", Darius said, transparently feigning happiness to see the grand army's executive officer, "And with you here now, Sub-General- the intellectual _foundation_ of our cozy, little rebellion is again united!"

As though to supplement Caldettas's understanding of what he had walked in on, Krymina motioned to the Tirolians and explained, "Darius was encouraging me to imbibe in wine and attempting to rationalize how the consumption of a mind-numbing agent was useful at a moment of action. He was less than successful."

Darius glanced up at the Zentraedi sub-general who towered above him, his face slightly flushed from drink, and said, "-As though our paltry , little food synthesizer could produce enough wine in a week to even bring color to her cheeks-. And I suspect that you will not partake either, Sub-General?"

Caldettas shook his head, saying, "No, I regret I must decline. It's as impractical a practice as it is unfamiliar."

"Self-rule is unfamiliar, but you do not shy away from that.", Darius pointed out.

Caldettas was preparing to engage in the debate that Darius was laying the grounds for when he realized the Tirolian's goal was the confrontation itself and not the discussion. The sub-general opted to sidestep the snare.

"Supreme General, I beg to report-."

"Our time to beg is growing short, Caldettas.", Krymina interrupted, perhaps accepting Darius's challenge in Caldettas's place and putting an end to the debate with a single, decisive stroke, "Report-."

Unfazed, Caldettas continued, "Sub-General Jekketh's units have assembled at departure stations- finally."

Caldettas's report required no lengthy explanation for Krymina to understand fully, nor did Caldettas need to voice how the whole series of events involving Jekketh and his expanded force annoyed him.

Supreme General Krymina had fulfilled her agreement with Jekketh to review and consider his proposal for war exercises with his enlarged army as the first modified clones had begun to form the ranks of new units in the sub-general's command. After minor modification, Krymina had given her approval to Jekketh's plan and within a week's time of that nod had turned Jekketh loose on a lifeless world for the purpose of stress-testing the forces Darius had delivered.

Sub-General Caldettas had governed magnificently his irritation at the special considerations Jekketh had all but demanded and received from Krymina in the staging of his exercise- but he had been forced to quickly concede to the benefits he enjoyed from them as Krymina had said he would. Jekketh _had_ all but vanished for weeks and with him had taken the incessant meddling and interruptions he frequently brought to the operational planning process.

Almost contrary to Caldettas's experience, Jekketh had been a non-factor for the most part except for those instances in which Caldettas had actually been forced to solicit Jekketh's engagement in the process. Even in these cases, Caldettas had sent undeveloped plan components to Jekketh with the request that details be filled in as appropriate from the ground force commander's level- and in each instance the component was returned within the allotted time and in a completed state.

There had even been little push-back from Jekketh in planning for the seizure or elimination of key strategic sites on the alien world as identified by Action Commander Kevtok and his reconnaissance force whose intelligence and observations had been invaluable to the planning effort. Caldettas suspected that this simply meant that Jekketh was placating him with formulated "intended" plans of action and would, as he normally did, execute operations as it suited him.

This was fine with Caldettas though. Jekketh was aware of the higher objectives of the operation that now included capture of the world in as serviceable a condition as possible- a fundamental change made since Kevtok's discovery that The Flower of Life was able to grow on this alien world. As for losses among the indigenous population and to some extent even in the expanded ranks of Jekketh's "improved" norghil army- Supreme General Krymina was unconcerned and was therefore unconcerned with the particulars of Jekketh's field operations. This being the case, Caldettas was able to find satisfaction in simply getting Jekketh to contribute to operational planning on _his_ terms.

"Has Jekketh submitted an after action report for his exercise?", Krymina asked with mild concern, "I have not seen one."

"No, Liege- he has not.", Caldettas replied, qualifying the statement with, "Though he alluded to one being nearly complete. My impression was that he was _satisfied_ with the performance of his new warriors."

Darius interjected without warning and in a tone that one would have expected from a man defending his work, "You expected otherwise, Sub-General?"

"I was not implying that at all.", Caldettas countered, still wary not to be cornered into the argument that Darius was still in search of.

Supreme General Krymina rendered aid to her executive officer though her tone spoke more of her desire to hear the details of his report than of one to be of genuine assistance.

"You were saying, Caldettas-?"

Caldettas collected himself and felt his thoughts fall back into proper order as he continued-.

"The last Phase One units have just sortied, Supreme General. Phase Two units will begin their departures per the timetable within the hour. Forward deployed reconnaissance and observation units continue to report slightly elevated though nominal alien fleet activity within the operational system based on the observed baseline. –It would seem that the aliens are unaware that any significant action has initiated against them."

Krymina's expression grew distant with thought as did her voice as she said, "To be unprepared is highly uncharacteristic of Breetai, Caldettas. We should take some comfort in our apparent possession of the element of surprise, but I want none of our commanders to become complacent or to take that advantage for granted. Breetai is renowned for victory against long odds and impossible situations- I do not wish to build upon his legend."

"All precautions are being taken, Liege.", Caldettas assured Krymina, "Based on observed enemy fleet strength and concentrations, Supreme General, every projected simulation shows our forces to be ultimately victorious. Admittedly though, the greatest random element is Breetai's Robotech Factory."

Krymina nodded, a slight flicker of concern showing in her eyes. The presence of a Robotech Automated Factory, apparently under the control of Breetai and his alien allies and in orbit around their world had been detected by the earliest Te'Dak Tohl scout units deployed to the system for long-range intelligence gathering. While the Factories had never been designed or even intended to participate in active combat, the formidable arsenal provided to even the smallest Factory designs made them a factor to be carefully considered.

The problem had been debated at length within the ranks of Krymina's planning staff and by her lieutenants in her presence. Concerns and arguments on both sides could essentially be reduced to the questions of whether Breetai had "active" control over the Factory orbiting the alien world, or a more passive one- borrowing support and favor from the facility's Hypercomp. If he had active control, would he commit his most valued asset to the defense of the alien world with whom he had sided against The Masters?

The only knowing of the answer to these questions was to be had in action.

"We shall see."

"I still advocate using the Trendok 145 to draw Breetai's Factory away, Supreme General.", Darius volunteered without solicitation and echoing the argument that he had made (also without invitation) at any number of planning sessions to which he had invited himself.

"Remove that variable from the equation."

Caldettas felt the need to sigh heavily though did not surrender to the urge as he prepared to respond with the argument that had been used time and time again.

"The possible benefits of removing the Factory from Breetai's control are strongly offset by the fact that we would be surrendering the surprise we have worked so hard to maintain, Darius. There's no telling whether Breetai's captured Factory even remains linked to The Network and would respond to an order to fold away from the alien world. –And, if it should, we would only have relocated an ideal platform for launching a retaliatory action against us to an area not under our direct control. No, tactically the best solution is to-."

Krymina interrupted, saying flatly, "This issue has been decided, Darius. Your contributions in the scientific fields are highly valued, but we have agreed that you will leave military matters to us."

Darius nodded his compliance, looking as he always did- not quite convinced of the correctness of his subordination to Zentraedi, but grudgingly accepting it.

"Of course, Supreme General."

Krymina's attention returned to Caldettas, "And what of Kevtok?"

Sub-General Caldettas had noticed in the time since when Action Commander Kevtok's mission had evolved from a purely intelligence-gathering operation to one of preparing an operational area for invasion that Supreme General Krymina's interest in his activities had increased dramatically.

The executive officer, knowing his superior, suspected that it had as much to do with symmetry in purpose that Krymina recognized between Kevtok and herself. She saw Kevtok as a scaled version of herself in his clandestine moves against Breetai and the aliens, acting much as she was against The Masters- preparing to strike from the shadows.

"Kevtok's observations and second-hand intelligence has been very useful in planning the landings in the portion of that particular continent on which he is operating.", Caldettas reported truthfully, "Coupled with our own long-range surveillance, we have been able to identify military installations and critical infrastructure better than in any other region. I am most curious however in seeing how effective his _acquired_ force is at the diversionary attacks he has been alluding to at the time of our landings. I'm interested to see what he's managed to assemble in the way of a fighting force that has been scavenged from norghil warriors and mostly alien weaponry."

Krymina gave a small nod that may have been missed by some but that told Caldettas that she too had some interest in the matter. Unexpected battle damage to Kevtok's transport in its approach to the alien world had rendered most of its advanced communications systems useless- leaving only text message and file transfer functionality as a means of conferring while retaining security encryption. It had been sufficient to provide observation reports and maps that when matched with the topographical scans of scout vessels deployed at long range from the world fused into detailed intelligence on an area large enough to land three action armies. While the prevailing method of the landings was still to be to smash anything that could possibly provide the aliens a point from which to mount resistance or a counterattack, the sort of information being provided by Kevtok had allowed the planning staff to better prioritize targets in the region- more so than in any other.

While Caldettas realized that he as the chief planner of the landings and as an officer in general should have been both elated and grateful for this sort of detailed intelligence from the ground, he still found himself concerned.

After all- the intelligence had come _through_ Kevtok, mostly _from_ norghil marooned on the alien world.

Similarly, the "synchronized attacks" to take place that Kevtok had repeatedly alluded to in communications were to be executed by forces of norghil that the action commander had been hastily organizing and preparing.

In all of this, what concerned Caldettas the most was not that the intelligence was flawed or that the norghil whom Kevtok had conscripted into his service would fail or hinder the landings of the 7th Grand Army-. It was the possibility that they might perform the role Kevtok had been preparing them for admirably, and in doing so prove so many of the "truths" held by the average Te'Dak Tohl warrior about the common norghil as being in fact, grossly false.

It did not matter, Caldettas forced himself to resolve. Even in the best case projections of the invasion- action was to be fierce and nearly constant for some time. Warriors would be too distracted by their duty to have time to possibly foster some kind of kinship with genetic relatives whose norghil affiliation and alien contamination had already sealed their ultimate fate.

"I should like to review his reports and general support plans once we are secure in fold.", Krymina said.

"The sum of Kevtok's communications are filed together.", Caldettas replied, "I will have a copy of all of them pushed to your personal data store."

"Thank you.", Krymina said as a mere formality, "Is that all, Caldettas?"

"Yes, Liege.", Caldettas said blandly.

"Caldettas-."

"Yes, Supreme General?"

"You don't seem pleased that the operation that you've spent so much time planning is finally in motion. Didn't we have a conversation once about enjoying these moments?"

Caldettas sighed heavily, recalling several such conversations, "Yes, Supreme General-. However, as I said in each case, my enjoyment will come when the operation achieves what it was intended to accomplish. Until then, it is little more to me than calculations and variables in play. –When it is done, Supreme General."

"Soon, Caldettas.", Krymina assured her executive officer, "Soon."

 **Edwards City, the Mojave Desert,**

 **California**

0357hrs.

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters awoke with a sudden start of panic that had him in a half-sitting position before he was even aware of waking.

The jarring transition between sleep and consciousness passed quickly like the sting of a slap to the face, and Winters' muscles relaxed dropping him heavily into the pillows once again. It was always the same breed of panic that awoke him a consistent three minutes before the rousing beep of the alarm clock. It wasn't a panic of distress or impending danger, but of the same kind as one would feel in looking at one's watch to discover that one was late for something important and unrecoverably so.

It had never made sense to Winters in the time it had been happening and it did not seem to matter how early he set the alarm because the jolting start to his days persisted. A shock into consciousness three minutes before the alarm appeared to be his daily torment-.

Or at least one of many.

At least, Winters resolved, he could count on regular company in bed to share with his mornings' discomfort. Over the breath of wind that carried a pattering of sand against the metal exterior of the trailer and the humming of the electric space heater that kept the chill of the desert nights out of the small bedroom Winters heard the first of another familiar morning sound. Starting softly but gaining volume with a rhythmic pulse to his breathing, Lucky's purr began to fill the room as a single paw found Winters' shoulder with the quiver of a cat's first morning stretch.

The worn mattress beside Winters was still warm in the space Rio had occupied all night and he was not surprised to not find her there. As much as he had the misfortune of waking before the alarm clock's revelry, Rio had a sense that always woke her earlier. Whether she suffered from the same affliction as Winters, he did not know as her waking had never roused him. As usual though, over the sounds of wind, sand, heater, and cat he could hear her out in the trailer's main room attempting to be quiet as she prepared the coffee machine for its morning duty.

There was another constant of morning to get out of way that Winters saw no need to put off longer than he had to.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up he switched the clock selector switch from the alarm tone to the radio as he felt the first tickling deep in his chest. A forceful, hacking cough rattled his solid frame as his lungs launched their daily retaliation against years of smoking. The fit was brief this morning though- briefer than most anyway- and Winters opened his eyes to the day and the red glow of the alarm clock's LED face.

On his place on the mattress, Lucky indulged in a full toe-to-tail stretch and made his morning contemplation of the human with his single eye as the clock reached 4:00 and the radio crackled to life.

"This is the BBC Foreign Service-.", said the pleasant female voice that regularly greeted Winters as the first he heard in his day, "-And this is the morning news for the twenty-third of December."

Winters found the half pack of cigarettes and his lighter on the nightstand and had a smoke lit before he was consciously aware of doing so. It was a step on the path to summoning the strength to shower in hopes of achieving a human state- which he would have to do quickly. Freddy would be along shortly to pick him up for the commute to the base.

Freddy could be counted on to be punctual too as his presence on base had actual purpose recently, unlike the bureaucratic monotony of the purgatory that Winters' professional life had become recently.

Penance for his sins.

"High ranking officials in the Robotech Defense Forces are still reeling from yesterday's revelation by the Army of the Southern Cross of three independently developed and manufactured transformable forms of mecha- effectively ending the RDF monopoly on claims to that technology.", the female voice continued in her soothing tone, "Press releases from RDF public relations and responses to subsequent inquiries show officials unwilling to speculate at this time as to the reason for the sudden leap in ASC technological capability or on its significance in the malcontent situation in Central and South America that continues to deteriorate the stability of the region."

 _Unwilling to speculate_ Winters knew translated roughly into common English- _the RDF had no idea and was caught completely off guard._

Certainly RDF Intelligence _had_ known that having achieved several Destroid models of their own design that the ASC had turned their eyes ambitiously toward ascending to the next level of mastery in Robotechnology- _transformable_ mecha. What Winters knew that the BBC and the press in general did not apparently was that the designs had been in a final mechanical-engineered form for some time and that working prototypes with limited function had even been built.

By "final mechanical-engineered form" and "limited function" was meant though that while each of the loosely named "Veritech" forms designed by the ASC- a hover tank, a helicopter/jet hybrid, and most disturbing to Winters a ground support attack fighter variant- were mature in their mechanical development, the highly sophisticated interface between pilot and machine had been known to still be out of the reach of General Marcus Leonard's home grown military industry.

Until now, it seemed.

"Neuropilot"- the bastard stepchild of Zor's research into The Flower of Life, and taken from the information that had been salvaged from his crashed space cruiser before it had been rebuilt and renamed _SDF-1_ – had been the missing piece that separated the ASC from achieving true Robotechnology. Neuropilot, the nexus of advanced computer programming, system design, and the wonders of bio-ethereal energy that allowed Veritech pilots after training to control the movements of their machines as naturally as had they been their own bodies had been the breath of God that the ASC could not blow into their inanimate things to make them living.

Constant as a _way of things_ though, secrets never stayed secrets forever. However it had happened that knowledge was no longer the sole possession of The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces.

What Winters was most apprehensive of and dreaded to know the most was what the BBC newswoman had said- what it meant for the future.

"In other news from the American Sectors, the frequency and violence of clashes between malcontent Zentraedi paramilitary factions and local security and military forces continues to rise.", the newswoman continued along a clear segue, "The period of relative peace in xeno-human coexistence even within the highly volatile Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil and Venezuela ended abruptly some three months ago with the political assassination of the leader of the largest Zentraedi repatriation movement in The Zone that sparked weeks of unrest and random acts of anti-human terrorism. Despite the findings of a Southern Cross Military Police investigation that concluded the assassination to be the isolated act of a local human supremacist group, and despite the efforts of local and planetary government to reconcile the situation peacefully incidents of attacks on human population centers and military installations have continued to occur and with greater regularity."

"When asked yesterday at a daily security briefing whether the continuation, escalation, and apparent increased sophistication of malcontent Zentraedi attacks within The Control Zone and those that have taken place as far north as the North American Outlands constitute signs of coordinated activity- ASC Military Police spokesman, Colonel Antonio Castagne had the following to say-."

There was a brief pause as an audio clip was cued to allow the PR voice of the ASC Military Police to speak for himself- a full day after the fact.

Winters braced himself as nicotine drove away the morning shakes for the polished, unrepentant lie that was certain to follow. He had gained some familiarity with Castagne over the past few weeks through sound bites or quotes in print, and in them Winters had found that quality that was universal to all PR officers. Castagne had the voice, personality, and word craftsmanship to be able to tell a person that their liver would be eaten out by rabid sewer rats and to make it come across as being just dandy. That gift made him well-suited for his job.

The RDF and United Earth Government had similar models in corresponding posts, but Winters had come to recognize and appreciate Castagne for the artist he was. This was probably by necessity- a sink or swim ultimatum in his career considering who he represented. The ASC, and in particular the Military Police, had many a questionable act to put a favorable spin on- and Castagne was a master.

A true disciple of Goebbels.

"-No.", came the solid, paternal voice of the ASC officer as though responding to the BBC newswoman's recap of the question that had been posed, "I don't think that this string of attacks on civilians and on some minor military posts should cause people to become overly alarmed. The rumors of some, great Zentraedi coalition is completely unsubstantial. While it's true that most if not all of the malcontent factions share a set of common goals and interests, the leadership of these groups has never shown itself capable of putting aside deep-set rivalries and suspicions of one another to unify. I think- and there is intelligence to back this- that the more likely explanation for what we are seeing and what many are interpreting as _organization_ is that there are a number of factions that have become proficient at raiding and that they are seizing opportunities as they find them. The apparent _spread_ of these raiding incidents into Central and even North America can be explained as dispersed, independent factions learning of the successes of others and gaining the courage to engage in raiding on their own. With the intelligence we have in hand, this explanation is far more plausible than any specter of a larger, _organized_ , Zentraedi menace."

Winters shook his head with grudging admiration for the man's ability to spontaneously generate fertilizer.

 _Masterful._

All of the best could spin straw into gold when the need arose. Two of the same type as Castagne- one speaking for the RDF Air Force, and another for the ASC- had spun a "friendly" attack on an ASC base deep in The Control Zone some three months ago into a malcontent "assault", not unlike what Castagne had just spoken of.

Pure gold.

Winters knew it to be gold plated at best though. Just shiny and pretty enough to pass casual inspection and fade quickly into the public's rapidly-blurred memory. Winters knew the story of the ASC base to be gold-plated all too well as he was still living the consequences, and he suspected that much if not all of what Castagne had just told the public was as genuine.

Shiny and pretty was what the world wanted sometimes though. With all the dirty realities there were to choose from, sometimes an illusion was a welcome thing.

The first smells of brewing coffee and the unmistakable sound of a military land rover coming up the bare patch of packed desert sand that served as something close to a driveway for the trailer brought Winters back to the moment and to the fact that he had to be up and moving. Unwilling to hear more of the world as the spin-doctors of authority wanted it to be and passed on by the BBC, Winters switched off the radio in the clock and made for the shower in the trailer's small bathroom.

The sound of the bathroom door closing and the shower starting to run told Rio that Winters was awake and that her timing in rising before him had been sufficient to allow the small water heater and coffee maker to do their respective jobs. The likelihood of the morning starting smoothly was exponentially better.

Keyed in also to the series of events that had to take place for the day to begin without friction, Lucky the cat took the sound of the shower running as his cue to come out to be fed. Scraps of chicken beckoned from a plate on the countertop next to the coffee machine, a feeding location that would have sent Winters through the roof.

He was in the shower though as both Rio and Lucky knew, and morsels eaten in peril tasted the best.

A tapping on the trailer door made Rio jump slightly even though she had heard the rover pull up the driveway and knew it to be Dalton. Even with this forewarning she found that she scared too easily- an understandable affliction given her life she knew, but one that was still embarrassing. As the door to the trailer opened cautiously, Rio swept enough hair over the scarred side of her face to conceal the more visible testimony to the life she had lived.

Lieutenant Colonel Fred Dalton leaned partially through the doorway to announce himself without fully intruding.

"Hello-?"

Out of Dalton's line of sight, Rio thumped her heel on the floor prompting the pilot to lean further in until he was able to see her. At this point she waved him in with a fluid gesture that continued into a physical invitation to have a cup of coffee from the pot that was nearly done brewing.

Dalton stepped inside and shut the door behind himself quickly lest the cold, desert pre-dawn suck the modest warmth of the trailer out into the darkness. Out of courtesy he removed his airman's cap and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather aviator's jacket before responding to the offer of coffee.

"A small cup maybe-.", Dalton said as he realized he was being studied intently by the cat through its single eye.

Satisfied that the human was no immediate threat and probably wouldn't betray the secret of a countertop feeding, Lucky returned to his meal with the gusto of an animal that had known hard times.

"Did Jack just hop in the shower?", Dalton asked as Rio handed him half a cup of liquid life- black as he took it.

Rio nodded and poured herself a half cup as well. Dalton had noticed over the years that the young woman had been in Winters' company that she never took more for herself than what she offered to a guest. Whether this was just an attempt at being a good hostess or the result of some acquired neurosis, Dalton wasn't sure.

Rio wasn't saying either.

"So, are you talking to me today, Rio?", Dalton asked, going through the paces he went through every day that he picked Winters up.

Rio simply hinted at a smile under a veil of hair and shook her head.

"Okay-.", Dalton said, sipping at his coffee, "Maybe tomorrow then."

It probably wouldn't be tomorrow either, Dalton knew. That was fine too as he wasn't sure what they would talk about if Rio did decide to break her silence. Dalton recognized that for him at least it was more about the chase at this point- his coyote to her roadrunner. He had never heard her utter an intelligible sound and did not know how seriously to take Winters' claims that she was given to talking incessantly when the mood struck her.

It didn't matter though- Rio always got her point across, spoken word or not.

"Sorry that I'm here so early-.", Dalton said sipping at his coffee again and watching the cat do an amusing, feline "happy dance" with its hind quarters as tasty tid-bits were devoured, "I wanted to stop by someplace in town to get doughnuts for A Flight-. They had the watch on Alert Five last night and I figured that was desserving of a little something. And God knows that Gecko's gotta be dying for something other than hospital food-. That's probably what cures or kills the wounded."

Rio nodded sympathetically and Dalton took it that with her having been present so many times when Winters had "talked shop" with the other pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron that she understood him to mean that half of the squadron had been on five minute stand-by. For someone who appeared to be within her rights to be hard-hearted with the world, Rio was always a good one for sympathy.

More of her sympathy was probably directed at Captain Alan "Gecko" Home whose participation in a standard patrol of The Outlands ten days before as part of a four ship element led by Major Eugene "Preacher" Wayne had nearly made the sharp turn from routine to tragic. Like a frog in the proverbial hot-pot, rogue Zentraedi activity and hostility had been building gradually for months and it was not until the water had reached a boil that the pilots in the NORAMWEST command had consciously recognized the fact.

The "boil" for Gecko had been in a low-level pass with wingman Cisco over a previously unplotted encampment in the southwest corner of the wastelands. Not an uncommon practice, one or two high-speed passes usually gave a gross indicator whether the inhabitants were "friendly"- migrant humans or "indoctrinated" Zentraedi- or "hostile", the _other_ kind of either species, by whether or not random shots were fired up at the patrolling aircraft.

Fire had come this time, but not from scavenged or stolen assault rifles or laser weapons. An SA-9, shoulder-fired, anti-aircraft missile had sprung up from a rocky formation overlooking the encampment to greet Gecko and Cisco unexpectedly. The countermeasure systems of the Valkyries had been set to automatic and flares had been dispensed in quantity in the split second between when the small but lethal missile had left the tube and when its second stage rocket motor had fired. At such close range, this had been enough infrared distraction to confuse the all-aspect seeker head of theSA-9 just enough to throw the missile off beyond its normal CEP ( _circular error probable_ ) before the warhead detonated.

The fortune of this for Gecko whose Valkyrie in the lead had taken the brunt of the blast was offset by the misfortune that the high-velocity shards of the fragmentation warhead were both partially ingested by his port engine and partially struck his fuselage and canopy at the worst possible angle and at which it was weakest: from the side.

Metal splinters from the warhead as well as terilium and plexiglass spall had zipped around the tight space of the cockpit and no less than twenty bits had imbedded themselves into the pilot including a single shard that had somehow passed through Gecko's facemask and then his right cheek without so much as grazing a tooth. Whether it had been training and experience, the escape-enabling effects of shock, or a combination of both- Gecko had not augered his aircraft into The Outlands after taking that hit at low altitude, but had managed to limp home on one engine under the escort of the rest of the element.

Later, after emergency trauma surgery, the doctors had commented to Winters and Dalton that the fact that the pilot had maintained consciousness for the flight home and landing had been miraculous given the amount of blood loss. When told later, Lyle had commented that the blood hadn't been "lost"- it was just all over the inside of the cockpit. Regardless, Gecko had found the hard way out of flight duty for at least two weeks and probably longer.

He had also been one of the first pilots from NORAMWEST command to discover the hard way that rogue Zentraedi hostility had increased in the normally quiet backwaters of The Outlands, and with the added edge of better weaponry. Gecko had demonstrated the having of a greater share of that intangible variable of luck than others though as he had brought his plane home and survived whereas other pilots had joined the ranks of the KIAs.

"Anyway-.", Dalton continued, changing the subject to one he'd been tasked to bring to closure before he had left the house himself, "Linda told me to remind you that you and Jack were invited to Christmas dinner and that she and the kids would be really upset if you didn't show up-. I _think_ she meant they'd be upset if _you_ didn't show up-. Jack might be another story, but I told her you two are a package deal at holiday times."

Rio's expression changed to one of deep concern.

Dalton waved off the unspoken reservation Rio was conveying, "Oh, forget it-. We'll have plenty to eat. You know Linda, she starts hoarding and scraping around the first of September and has had me call in one or two favors over at the base commissary. The bird is already Bogarting the freezer. Besides- she says if there's not enough, she'll just give Jack the boot."

"I don't quite grasp what I ever did to that woman-."

Winters had emerged from the bedroom and bathroom area of the trailer in his faded flight suit and worn officer's jack boots and was attacking his regulation-length graying hair with a comb as he shook his head despairingly.

"It probably has something to do with the way you always seem to get me nearly killed.", Dalton suggested, raising his coffee cup in a toasting motion, "Wives react funny to that."

Winters gave a noncommittal grunt as he drew from the holster at his hip the Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver, opened the cylinder, and began to drop heavy .44 magnum cartridges into the chambers.

"She shouldn't worry too much, Freddy.", Winters said, snapping the cylinder of the pistol home with a jerk of his wrist and dropping the long, chromed firearm back into its holster, "You're a pilot the same as the rest of us- you're too bloody stupid to die."

"Amen to that.", Dalton agreed as he crossed the short floor distance to the trailer's kitchenette where he placed his now emptied coffee cup in the sink and shooed the cat from the counter before Winters could notice him.

"Still, that doesn't mean the wife has to like you. –She does appreciate you letting us keep the presents here though. The kids are getting to be that sneaky age where they still _say_ that they believe in Santa- but you know they're checking the house for presents anyway."

Winters looked over at a small, neat stack of boxes wrapped in a variety of decorative papers- some of which were even intended for the Christmas season. Wrapping paper could be found, but not with great regularity yet and never in great quantity or diversity of style. He had actually had no say in whether Linda could stash the little Daltons' Christmas booty in his home- not that he would have objected. He had simply come home one day two weeks ago and had found himself minus that much usable floor space but with Lucky's eager endorsement at having a new surface to lounge on.

Linda Dalton had achieved the perfect "covert op", ingressing and egressing the operational area without warning and without being detected, and had achieved her objective without resistance. At the very least, she had avoided Winters- which he assumed was the highest objective after finding a place to stash presents.

"Clever lads.", Winter said with genuine approval, "And I was worried about how you were going to have to break the sad news to them one day-."

"-That there's no Santa?", Dalton clarified.

"I just figured on eventually telling them that I'd shot him down for violating restricted airspace. –Linda would back me on that, don't you think?"

Dalton shook his head, "No, don't think she could. She tells them you're busy every Christmas stealing the toys from the Whos in Whoville."

"Ah, slippery that one, she is-. Though do you think splashing Father Christmas would count as one, or nine? I mean, what- one sled, and what is it-? Eight reindeer?"

Rio shot Winters a harsh look as she handed him a thermal mug of coffee that she had just filled. Accepting as she was, there was a limit to the irreverence she would abide by.

"You're a sick man, Jack.", Dalton said taking his airman's cap from out of his jacket's pocket and shaking it free of the fold he'd made in it, "You know that, don't you?"

Winters slipped into his leather aviator's jacket and completed the ensemble by taking up his equally worn leather wheel cap and the sawed-off length of cane that had served him as a swagger stick.

"No, just born with a heart three sizes too small according to Linda- and besides, I was thinking of Lyle-.", Winters explained, "I mean, it's the difference between one stencil on _Marilyn'_ s side and nine-. Though I suspect you could stencil on a sled, and then a reindeer with eight hash marks. –Are the ones with red noses worth more points?"

Dalton opened the trailer door with a sigh of humbled resignation, "Let's go before I'm forced to think about the special circle of Hell that you're headed to."

Winters grazed his lips over the top of Rio's head in something like a "fly-by" kiss, saying to her, "We'll see you at work later. We have to get Freddy to the base so he can do pilot things and so I can justify office space. –The hell Freddy was talking about I suspect."

Rio's fingers clutched at Winters' jacket as he moved toward the door Dalton was holding open for him, but she released it and let him slip away- her hands running down the length of his left arm to his fingertips like the melodramatic "parting touch" between young lovers in a bad 1940s "going to war" romance movie.

Rio did have her understandable frailties.

The desert's cold night air bit sharply in small breaths of wind at Winters' neck that was still damp from his quick shower. A waxing moon was midway through its decent in the west and was just luminous enough to cast faint shadows with its pale blue light.

Edwards City could be seen as a soft glow in the humidity-free air, low on the horizon beneath a dramatic curtain of stars. "The Suburbs", still devoid of street lights or even well-defined streets for that matter were more easily seen this early morning by virtue of the random dwellings that despite the shortages of just about everything else were adorned with Christmas lights. Winters had noticed the lights about the same time the young Daltons' presents had taken up residence in his closet-sized living room. His first impression had been one of wastefulness- the power flow to Edwards City and to The Suburbs in particular were too inconsistent, and people certainly had better things to spend their money and moreover the recovering manufacturing capacity of the planet on than multi-colored strands of lights.

And then one morning while Dalton was picking him up for the drive to the base, a morning not unlike this one- the underlying human imparative struck Winters. It wasn't an "Ebenezer Scrooge reborn" moment where he wanted to throw money to a boy in the street to have him buy the prize turkey for the Cratchit family, but just a glimpse of the lights out of the corner of his eye in which for a brief moment he was certain he smelled the ginger cookies his grandmother had baked at holiday time. It had been by no means a life altering moment, but it did ram home the thought that the way back to normalcy began with small details and small nostalgic comforts.

 _God bless us, every one-._

"What?", Dalton asked, snapping Winters out of the drift of thought he was in.

"What, _what_?", Winters replied.

Dalton dug a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket's inner pocket and having placed a cancer stick between his lips offered the pack to Winters.

"I thought you said something-."

"Mumbled something, maybe-.", Winters said, taking Dalton's offering of a two minute contribution to chronic health problems, "Perhaps desk duty has finally driven me to crack."

"You were cracked already.", Dalton reminded Winters as he ruined both their night vision with the striking of his lighter, "If you go full-blown whacko, you can file for disability though."

"Or they'd promote me.", Winters said.

Both men stepped up and climbed into the lightly armored, six-wheeled land rover that Dalton had signed out of the motor pool at the beginning of the week. Dalton settled in behind the wheel and started the powerful, turbocharged engine that sent vibrations through the entire chassis with its low growl. The lights came on, bathing all before the rover in brilliant illumination including the hulk of a car bound up beneath a dirty, weathered blue plastic tarp.

"You ever going to get that Mustang running, Jack?", Dalton asked as he reversed carefully out of the driveway path and onto the modestly wider dirt road that would lead at a few kilometers distance to actual pavement.

"Not yet.", Winters replied between a sip of coffee and a drag on his cigarette. It was a standard answer to a standard question. In fact, he hadn't even taken the tarp off the car in weeks. This was only slightly less productive than his normal habit of opening the bonnet with various manuals at hand to stare at and tinker with for hours the enigma of the internal combustion engine. "I'm thinking of starting a new project- maybe build a boat in my basement."

"You'd need a basement first, Jack.", Dalton reminded him.

"Well then, _two_ new projects-. Christ, Freddy, do you have to bugger all of my aspirations?"

"Only the unrealistic ones.", Dalton replied, "So, yeah- that's all of them."

"At least you keep me grounded."

Dalton turned onto the paved road in the direction of Edwards City.

"Speaking of _grounded_ \- what's going on upon high these days?"

Winters glowered at Dalton over the red glow of his cigarette's tip that matched the soft light from the rover's instrument panel, "You're just two teaspoons of salt in the wound today, aren't you?"

"Okay, when you see Gecko later you two can debate over whose life sucks worse right now.", Dalton said unsympathetically, "-And I wasn't looking for a fight. I was just asking what was going on in the big building these days."

"I'll have you know that we're only staying together for the children-.", Winters said before allowing Dalton's inadvertent slight to roll off him, "I've been invited this morning to an intelligence brief about the ASC's new toys- that's at zero-nine-hundred. Other than that, I thought I'd do the normal-. Shift things around on my desk a little, have a long lunch at the O-Club, and then maybe nine holes of golf this afternoon."

"That's how the Air Force gets shit done-.", Dalton mused, "Word around the campfire says that we're importing squadrons. Any truth to that?"

Winters grunted, "We'll see some of those reinforcements, but most are going to bases in CENTAM and SOUTHAM. Ganyet had a fit when she heard yesterday."

Dalton nodded his understanding. Since her promotion to full colonel had taken effect, Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni had been feeling the full weight of tactical command of the composite air wing at Edwards. There was a lot of weight to be towed, insufficient pilots and resources to do it well, and replacements for the losses all of the squadrons on base had suffered were slow in coming.

"Table scraps, eh?"

Winters shook his head, "Not quite- we're getting a full Valkyrie squadron attached."

Dalton laughed in surprise, "Then what's the problem?"

"-From Victoria-.", Winters added.

Dalton was silent behind the wheel for a moment while his mind turned over and over the single, vague hint that Winters had tossed him.

RDF Victoria Air Force Base had the distinction of being the largest military installation in the southern hemisphere- a bragging right achieved by the fact that Australia had assimilated the fewest number of Zentraedi following The Robotech War and had kept most of its population centers relatively intact in the south. With the central and northern territories desolate and naturally devoid of all but the smallest settlements, a single, large military outpost had served the continent well as opposed to the more common approach used in other parts of the world of creating smaller, geographically distributed but mutually supporting posts.

Victoria Base for all of its importance to the continent had still gained the stigma of being the end of the Earth, and perhaps rightfully so. While its service history was not one to be ashamed of by any stretch of the imagination, popular consensus in the RDF community was that the post on the untamed continent was a natural magnet to the service's most untamed units.

From Winters' point of view and of the squadron he had hinted at to Dalton, the popular consensus was not unwarranted.

Dalton began to chuckle with the dawning of understanding- the same sophomoric, mischievous laugh spawned by the humor of "hot boxing" a confined space for an unsuspecting victim. Dalton knew immediately whom Winters was alluding to.

" _Ahhhhhh-HOOOOOOOO!_ ", Dalton howled, turning his head slightly to bay at visible but setting moon, "Dingo and his bunch, eh?"

" _Rabble_ is more fitting, I think-.", Winters said, rolling down the ballistic glass window of the rover to toss away his cigarette as it burned down to the filter, "-And that's saying something coming from Knight Hawk Squadron."

Indeed it was a statement. Every base had its "black sheep" squadron to one degree or another, and what the Knight Hawks were to Edwards, the 1404th Werewolves were to Victoria. In light of this, and with Lt Gen Hume, commanding officer of NORAMWEST, in showing preference to his bases at Nellis and China Lake had sent the Werewolves to Edwards.

"Well-.", Dalton said in that way that Winters recognized as the prelude to one of his "make the best of it" rationalizations for which American Mid-Westerners were so famous, "At least its going to be interesting around here."

Winters uttered a grunt that was part agreement and part resignation, "Maybe flying a desk isn't as bad a duty these days as I'd thought."

"They know about Roxanna's joint though, so one thing's for sure, Jack.", Dalton said with concern, "We'd better make it to beer call before they do or we'll find the place drunk dry."

"No argument here.", Winters agreed.

Light posts began to drift by on either side of the road on which the rover was traveling and up ahead the first buildings marking the Edwards City limits began to loom up. The windows of most dwellings and storefronts were dark, but Dalton knew of a few eateries that would be open.

"Okay then, boss-.", Dalton said to Winters, "Command decision time. Are we getting doughnuts or biscuits for the boys?"

Looking at the prospect of another day in a cramped office, Winters found tht any appetite he had had was now gone, making the options moot for him.

"I don't know-. What's worse for them in general?"

"Probably doughnuts."

"Doughnuts it is then."

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

Intelligence "round tables"- the daily briefing to the Vice-Commander of RDF Intelligence by the various division commanders and "external" representatives- were known to be _contentious_.

The comparison had been made by many to a "high rollers" poke game. Only the best of reading others while guarding against being read sat at the table, and the stakes were always high. The "hands" were words, and as much could be inferred from what was not said as what was said.

In theory though, _everyone was playing for the same team._

In theory.

As with all things in the recovering United Earth, needs in the RDF Intelligence community were great and the resources scarce. Performance for an intelligence entity equated to leverage in claims on the resources available.

As performance was based on the dissemination of useful information to military and Government consumers, information was almost always scrutinized and debated by the parties other than the one rendering it. At the level of the "round table", like any gathering of fierce intellectual competitors, there was often as much emphasis on _being_ _the one_ who was right as there was on intelligence information being right.

The underlying idea of the "round table" remained though- the sharing of intelligence information and trends in thinking. And like any high-stakes forum for intellectuals, there tended to be _disagreements_ from time to time.

Commander Anne Weitzel, REF Intelligence, was familiar with the game of the round table as it was played from a spectator's point of view. Like watching a tournament political chess match, she had come to know the players and their personalities on the board.

Weitzel had become much more familiar with the game from a seat at the table over the past two months and had found the change in seating made worlds of difference. The arguments that regularly arose that would have merely been jarring as a spectator now had a distinct sting as a player. Weitzel recognized though that as distasteful as the confrontations often were, it was an arena that she was going to have to master in the name of the marginalized Information Fusion Division.

Maybe Ephraim was to blame-.

Ephraim Shiloah, RDF Air Force Intelligence, had not yet been confirmed by the United Earth Lower Council Military Selection Committee to wear the star that now adorned his uniform epaulettes when he had started to insist that Weitzel join the regular roster of attendees.

Weitzel had not needed her years of analysis experience to understand what that meant either.

The IFD, or "Warped Corps" (a name she was fond of but would have to shed the public use of) as a backwater intelligence group would be in need of a new commander as soon as Brigadier General Shiloah was settled into his new post as Vice-Commander for Sentient Intelligence.

Without explicitly saying that Weitzel was a "shoe-in" for the position of IFD honcho, or overtly saying that he even favored her heavily for the job, Ephraim had told her that he wanted her at the meetings, "-To be sure someone could look out for shop interests when he was swimming with bigger sharks-." Weitzel had accepted the tap gratefully, even enthusiastically at first- but over time had begun to wonder whether the headaches and chores of disparate intelligence fragments wasn't a better daily existence.

Still, if Ephraim had faith in her to pull it off-. She owed him her best effort at least.

Weitzel settled in at her seat beside Shiloah and began to tidy the small stack of file folders she had brought with her by habit- in case anyone should ask for details on the topics she might speak on when her turn came. Shiloah, who had come armed only with his standard cup of tea and a leather portfolio case containing his smart tablet smiled paternally at the junior officer as he saw how her pile nearly reached the height of her coffee cup that stood beside it on the tabletop.

"You should really slim down you know, Anne.", Shiloah said quietly with words that in another setting might have been offensive to a woman.

"They're going to think you're a caveman's secretary if you keep bringing a file cabinet with you to every meeting."

Weitzel squared away the corners of her folders and picked up her cup of coffee- her brain requiring more charging before the morning's melee.

"I can't help it. I feel naked if I don't feel prepared, and I still take my best notes on paper. Maybe I _am_ a troglodyte-."

Shiloah shrugged, "Not a troglodyte- but not a friend of trees. I hope you get wise before your back gives out. Take my word for it- no one at this table has interest in great detail- _or_ the span of attention. True information exchanges take place at the lower levels. We're just here to look confident for our superiors and say we know what's going on. –Oh, and _bicker_ of course."

Weitzel smiled, hearing an echo of aspersions cast regularly by analysts whose company she was sharing less and less frequently these days by the demands of the job she was being nudged toward.

"Is that the official party line?"

Shiloah nodded and said, "Yes, _unofficially-_."

The briefing room's long, rectangular table had filled to capacity with the noteworthy exceptions of the Chair at the head and the seat normally occupied by Colonel Kalehahea, General Breetai's staff advisor from the Office of The Military Chief of Staff.

As the meeting secretary, a fine-featured Army major with red hair and fading freckles, worked at a nearby computer terminal a hologram viewscreen appeared over the table bearing the OMCS crest and the flashing banner that warned all present that their words were being heard elsewhere through a secure communications link, saying in white letters over orange- "TOP SECRET TRANSMISSION IN PRGRESS"

"Colonel Kalehahea, sir-.", said the meeting secretary in a deeper voice than what one might have expected from such a slight frame, "-Are you on and receiving?"

Paper shuffling could be heard and seemed to come from behind the hologram that still stood as a field of blue with the OMCS crest at the center. This was not unusual that the video portion of the link had not been activated from Kalehahea's end of the link. As a member of General Breetai's staff, Kalehahea was perpetually overwhelmed and likely had materials before him that he would be working on in parallel as the meeting progressed. The group at the table had no need to see these materials- even if it was only a glimpse by video comlink- and it was likely that the documents were compartmentalized and therefore to be guarded with extra care.

"OMCS here.", Kalehahea said as the paper shuffling subsided, "Sorry to deprive you all of the privilege of seeing my pretty face, but-."

A few chuckles came from around the table, but the secretary spoke for the group, saying, "Understood, sir. We'll come upstairs if we start to suffer from withdrawal."

"Good enough."

The final face at the table was accounted for as Major General Charyce Clarke, short and slender with dark ebony skin and darker eyes entered the room at her brisk pace that many officers and staff who towered over her found difficult to match. The Vice Commander of Intelligence was imposing in her meticulously kept Army uniform despite her diminutive stature. Her features were deceptive in reporting truthfully her age which was irrelevant, but she had about her the distinctive air of a "West Pointer" which she was- or had been in the pre-Unification days when West Point had been among the top national military academies in the world.

Weitzel found herself drawn to and liking Clarke. As an intelligence officer, she had once or twice revealed herself to be slightly behind the curve in technical matters- but her duties were mostly administrative and high-level analytical. As an administrator and as the Chief of Staff for the Military Intelligence Services her West Point schooling showed through clearly in the execution of her duties.

Per protocol, those seated at the table had begun to rise the moment Clarke had entered the room. Per Clarke's general attitude toward this particular element of protocol, she quickly motioned them back into their seats.

"Let's get started, shall we?", General Clarke said as she laid out her own organizer on the table before her. Like Shiloah's, it contained an electronic smart tablet that was no doubt wired into compartmentalized areas of the network whose existance Weitzel was not even aware of. Through the device, she had access to everything that was about to be presented to her- leaving only the forum for its own sake. Anything not accessible through the smart tablet, Clarke had a whole staff to acquire for her. There were benefits to being a flag officer.

"We all saw the news and read the paper this morning.", Clarke said bluntly, laying her hands palms down on the table to show herself balanced by a West Point graduate's ring on her right ring finger and an equally attention-grabbing engagement and wedding band set on her left, "So, everyone knows that the word is out to the public that the ASC is now a full-blown member of the Robotechnology Club-. We knew the day was coming, but we still cannot account for how it came so fast. –No jokes please-."

Clarke was starched, polished, and straight-laced as they came, but she would occasionally allow familiar humor to slip when a dire subject required a touch of levity.

"For the sake of saving face, we're allowing the ASC claims of _internal technological development_ to go uncontested. But to everyone at this table and our friends in TV-Land- _good morning_ , Paté-."

"Good morning, ma'am.", Kalehahea replied through the comlink from his office one building over and two floors up.

"- _We_ know it's bullshit.", Clarke continued, "To be short on the matter, I'll tell you what I've been briefed by the Ministry of Internal Intelligence and by the Chief Security Officer at the Ministry of Robotech Sciences-. No one can account for the transfer of research data, materials, or of the research products from MRS to the ASC that would have been required to accomplish such a technological quantum leap in so short a period of time. Access and custody chains for all relevant materials have been internally and independently reviewed- and nothing. IG and Facilities Security at production sites have also verified security integrity-. So, we have a genuine mystery on our hands that, my boss, General Breetai, as well as the Council Committees on Robotech Sciences and on Intelligence, and also the President will be wanting answers to- _yesterday_. So, with that in mind, Signals- what do you have for me?"

Brigadier General Keenan, a fit but thick-bodied career Air Force type (for the RCAF before the RDF) leaned forward to the conference table to put his heavy forearms on its polished surface and said with resignation, "So far, nothing of interest, ma'am. We're forced to concur with the MII and facilities security investigations- the information did _not_ pass through any routers, switches, or firewalls that touched the secure enclave. We, as you all know, keep airtight monitoring on all encrypted and unencrypted radio and satellite communications coming in and out of ASC entities and cover fronts. Again, nothing. We have even performed net scans on the commercial network and switches on irregular activity by _anyone_ remotely related to military Robotech R &D."

" _Nothing._ "

"Finally, we hacked ASC military R and D, and puppet corporation gateway servers and databases deeper than we've ever dared attempt before-. We found evidence of the technical files in question being there, but no indication of how the transfer was achieved."

"Nothing."

Cyber-Intelligence and cyber-warfare had actually shrunk in prominence directly following The Zentraedi Holocaust because of the near-total destruction of the telecommunications infrastructure that supported the Internet. That infrastructure was regenerating rapidly and it was widely known and accepted that the "cyber" disciplines in the military sense would again one day require their own agency within the Ministry of Defense. For now though, Signals Intelligence had oversight of those duties and to General Keenan's credit had done amazing things.

This particular instance was evidence however of what even Keenan had asserted on many occasions- that technology in and of itself was not always a solution to a problem. This, and the fact that SIGINT tread minimally into the domain of and was no threat to the budgets of the other intelligence groups allowed Keenan to disengage from the discussion without drawing fire from the others at the table.

"Then I'm eager to hear from SENTINT-.", Major General Clarke said with clear frustration in her voice as she turned her gaze on Shiloah, "Ephraim?"

"SENTINT"; or, "Sentient Intelligence" (formerly "human intelligence" until an astute staffer pointed out that a great number of the most valued resources in this area of information gathering were not _human_ ) had barely been Shiloah's division long enough for the ink on his confirmation papers to dry- but he was already totally in his element.

Shiloah adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he replied to his superior, "We have theories of course, ma'am. Unfortunately we have nothing to substantiate them or support one more than another."

"Exhaustive investigations into all personnel with access to those materials has bore no fruit. Their activities and to a possible point of motive, their financials have all remained within the norms-. If the leak _is_ internal to MRS or RDF R &D, this suggests that we are not dealing with a mole who is working for financial gain, but rather possibly for ideology. Idealists, if they are able to govern and conceal their passions to achieve their ends, are often the hardest to identify as they leave a light paper trail of incriminating evidence."

"-And-.", added Assistant Minister Glenmont of the Ministry of Domestic Investigations, one of the few "regulars" at the daily intelligence briefing who appeared in a suit and not a military uniform, "-Also they are sometimes the hardest to nail by profile. If we're looking for an _idealist_ \- we're looking for: someone who likely justifies the unauthorized dissemination of highly classified information to external entities by rationalizing that it serves a greater common good. –The _world_ as it were, over an _established_ political entity like the construct of The United Earth-."

"Well, go back fifteen years to the cusp of Unification- who at this table wouldn't have fallen into that profile? Who in R and D, or industry, or in the military for that matter who has risen to the level where they could successfully access that quantity and classification of material, transfer it to unsanctioned parties, and then successfully cover it up does not fit that profile either? If we're looking for people who are willing to risk for the sake of ideals, I'll need to know where everyone here at this table was on the night in question _\- for starters_."

Grim chuckles circulated around the table letting Glenmont know that his point was understood and taken.

"We haven't thrown in the towel yet though.", Glenmont assured those around him, "But any answer we're going to provide is going to come from good, old-fashion police work."

General Clarke was not visibly perturbed by the lack of answers she was receiving, but was showing signs of greater determination to get some.

"Then old-fashion police work it will have to be. At the same time, whoever is responsible for this information theft is clearly well-versed in our established way of thinking and operating. How else would they cover their tracks so well? We're dealing with _outside of the box_ thinkers, and the best countermeasure for that kind are _other_ outside of the box thinkers-."

"The IFD has been unusually quiet in this discussion. -Commander?"

Weitzel felt the immediate rush of heat and chill that came only from being thrust unexpectedly into the center of attention, or less likely in her case the early onset of menopause. Every officer in the military was accustomed to briefing in one form or another, so the acuteness of the sensation Weitzel felt was not the common fear of speaking. She was the proverbial small fish in the big pond and more precisely, she was the representative of an underfunded and marginalized intelligence office who was being looked to by the Vice-Commander to provide possible answers where the "big fish" could not.

This, Weitzel knew, turned the pond into dangerous waters to be swimming in.

The REF officer fought the strong urge to clear her throat before beginning and instead found herself speaking in a strong, disciplined tone-.

"To borrow from a fictional detective of some fame, General, when you eliminate all of the other possibilities- what remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.", Weitzel prefaced, "The information did not simply pass through the ether into ASC hands- someone on the inside _must_ have initially accessed it. I'll concede that my colleagues at Internal Intelligence in coordination with the security elements at MRS and the various services have done a thorough job investigating. I suspect that the investigation was one that was built over the framework of the security posture and procedures in place. As there have been no findings, except to say that it's been confirmed that the ASC _does_ have MRS and RDF R &D materials- then I'd say that someone has found a weakness in our security posture. To try to detect a breech source by running checks against the normal security mechanisms is probably futile. –As Holmes said; whatever is left must be the truth."

Weitzel felt the inevitable heavy stares of superiors feeling slighted by her words falling upon her. Beside her though, through an otherwise expressionless face, she felt the proud smile of Shiloah's eyes. That was enough to keep her speaking with confidence in advocating the improbable- the hallmark of the IFD.

"We're looking for a straight line from _Point A_ to _Point B_ \- I don't think that anyone sophisticated enough to make use of the information that was stolen would be so direct. I think the information probably passed from _Point A_ , to _B_ through _L_ before reaching _Point M._ We _might_ find that path and it _may_ lead us to our mole- but I think that the best clues and evidence we will find will be at the sources. If we've checked the personnel and systems at MRS, R &D, and production sites by standard means- then it's time to start getting creative."

"Did the information pass out of our control through secure servers, networks, switches, and firewalls?- No. Then we start by asking, how _do_ you move that quantity of data without using those channels? Once you've determined that- then you can compile a list of who at least would have the access needed to perform such a task. Then, as Assistant Minister Glenmont said, it's old-fashion police work."

"The evidence _has_ to be there. _No one_ is that thorough in covering their tracks."

Glenmont clapped his hands together dramatically like a man eager to begin on a task he'd been given and said with only the amount of venom he wished to display showing, "-Well then, if that's _all we have to do-._ Really, Commander- where should we begin? Dismantle all of the classified equipment at MRS and RDF R &D and dust for prints? Have General Keenan hack the private email accounts and computers of everyone in the ASC?"

Weitzel replied without blinking, "As many as you can-. Why not? I'm not an expert on investigative practices. But I wouldn't hold my breath. I don't think the receiving point on the ASC end will be anyone with clear ties to them. That's why I stressed revising the investigation at the source of the leak."

"In your _professional investigative_ opinion?", Glenmont reiterated.

Weitzel repeated her earlier admission, "As I said, I have no investigative background- not in that sense. I'm only pointing out that the investigation needs to take a new path to yield results."

Glenmont sneered, "Funny, it seems that you just regurgitated what General Clarke said and elaborated a little-."

Weitzel nodded, "Yes, I did hear her say a number of the things I said-. _Did you?_ "

Glenmont said dismissively, "I heard her clearly, Commander-. But unlike the IFD, others around this table are responsible for generating credible and _actionable_ information."

"And how's that going?", Weitzel asked before she felt Shiloah tap her on her knee as a clear warning that she was best to wave off and withdraw from the building argument.

Ephraim was right of course, as he always was. Weitzel's blood was up though and on a personal level she was ready for a fight. Shiloah, however, was her governor that reminded her that she was here to perform a professional role.

Major General Clarke smothered the glowing embers of contest before they could flare into the flame of full-blown conflict.

"We're not going to solve this at the table this morning. What I want by twelve-hundred today is what we _know_ at this point, what it causes us to _strongly suspect_ , and I want it written and polished in small, easy to understand words. I also want clear plans for a re-attack on this situation from everyone at the table. My boss is going to have heartburn over the lack of answers, I want him to at least know that there's relief on the horizon."

"Circle the wagons on this one and everyone provide the pieces you have- even the scraps. We can't give the full picture today, but we can start cobbling together a rough sketch."

Major General Clarke's well-manicured nail traced down the touch-screen of her smart tablet scrolling through notes that she had made and that only she was privileged to see at the table. While she set the agenda for the round table, even she was subject to the whims of the Commander of Intelligence. Her notes often reflected questions raised in a pre-brief meeting that directly preceded the round table. These were the questions she was expected to have answers for and accounted for most deviations from the agenda as it was sent out.

The silence as Clarke reviewed her notes also opened a void that allowed Glenmont and Weitzel to trade broadsides of hateful stares. Like two stray dogs circling the same scrap of food, the bristling and bearing of teeth was much a display to offset by intimidation a real fight as it was a legitimate threat of violence.

Posturing was an important part of the game at the table.

"Zentraedi cruiser reconstruction in The Control Zone.", Clarke said, paraphrasing the next item on her agenda notes, "Didn't we have these things blown up already? I just don't think the malcontents are taking us seriously."

"We may have knocked the sense out of them three months ago- and Fleet Intelligence can speak to that.", Commodore Wendel of the REF Intelligence Division volunteered, "There's every indication that the Zentraedi workforce on site of these cruisers is working at a frenzied pace around the clock- but with no discernable gains. Can we have imagery-?"

The officer in charge of providing the technical support for the briefing to include imagery resources complied quickly.

The lights in the briefing room dimmed to allow better contrast for the hologram screens that appeared over the table for all to see. The satellite image of a downed Zentraedi scout ship, one of three at the site familiar to all from frequent viewings over the course of years appeared. Wounds opened months earlier by a combined ASC Air Force and RDF-AF strike had closed though the scars could still be seen by the eye that was keen to look for them.

Crude scaffolds had reappeared, and the rickety support infrastructure set up around the vessel to support its repair had risen again from the badly mauled state it had been diminished to by the same air strike.

Wendel continued after noting the time stamp in the lower right corner of the photo still, "This was sixteen hours ago-. Can we go back forty-eight hours?"

The technician complied moving one holographic image aside in the air and reducing it slightly to accommodate a second that showed a photo from nearly the same aspect forty-eight hours before.

There was, as was to be expected in these two snapshots in time, visibly different areas of the ship's outer hull that seemed to be in the progress of repair by the concentration of workers and the appearance of activity. On the grounds immediately surrounding the ship at the center of the image, there was a noteworthy change in the quantity and placement of tarp-covered supplies that were assumed to be materials to affect repairs, scavenged or stolen from wherever they could be had.

For all of this though, one clear element of the photo remained constant when one was not distracted by the overt differences.

The ship itself appeared unchanged.

"And back two weeks if we have those images available.", Wendel said building with his tone toward a point.

A third image appeared, showing mostly the same outer appearance of the ship with only the area of labor and the quantity and placement of supplies as a variable.

"I could show more shots from UAVs and high altitude surveillance flights along with endless sensor logs from the same birds, but I'll give you the short version.", Wendel said, broaching his point after masterfully building to it,.

"For all of the apparent labor involved in the _repair efforts_ on this particular scout vessel there has been a zero increase in the amount of power output from its main reactor. Also, there has been a negligible expansion of areas of the ship consuming power. This begs the question of: what exactly are the Zentraedi doing at this site, and where are the tons of supplies that have been stockpiled there going? Our opinion at Fleet Intel is that we're being shown a well-conceived but only moderately effectively executed ruse. So, what activity are they trying to draw our attention away from?"

"The clues to that may lie in what constitutes those heaps we see covered in taprs.", Commander Weitzel suggested, surprising Shiloah again by speaking out so soon after locking horns with Glenmont, "We are _supposed_ to assume that these are materials and supplies needed to repair the warships. We've all seen the photos- supplies come in, they vanish- consumed, again we are to assume, by the work on the vessels. What if they are not repair materials?"

"Army Intelligence can partially speak to that.", General Pritchard, representing that group, volunteered, "Supplementing Fleet analysis with eyes-forward observation has been difficult. Malcontent patrol activity in the area is prohibitively intense. But from some intel-gathering ambush operations in the area, we can say that the supplies we've intercepted moving in and out of the area have not been of a _repair_ nature. Weapons in great quantity, ammunition, food, medicine-. We've always known at this table that this site, in addition to being the location of these downed cruisers has served as an improvised supply depot. Recent activity seems to suggest that the emphasis is shifting from the former as a priority to the latter."

"Does the acquired intelligence suggest _where_ these supplies are going?", General Clarke asked.

Pritchard hesitated, "The assumption is that with all of the escalating malcontent activity in the region, it is going out to the various points where it is needed. Gaining confirmation of this is more difficult. As you all know, airborne surveillance of ground movements through the rain forest are extremely difficult at best. Both our forces and ASC forces are already stretched thin combating malcontent activity- this limits the number of units we can commit to SOG and LRRP. And the malcontents we have ambushed both inbound and outbound to this site have developed a simple but effective counterintelligence measure for preventing us from gaining a comprehensive view of their movements through captured maps and documents. We've found over the past eight to ten weeks that supply columns carry with them only partial maps of their routes. Rendezvous points are established, but origin and terminal points are never defined for the route as a whole. It's unclear as to whether the supply detachments are even fully aware of their final destinations when they set out."

Again, it's simple in concept- but effective, and requires masterful coordination at some level of command that we have yet to identify. And I assure you, that from what we've seen the effort for these supply movements is no longer dedicated to repairing these vessels."

"They're moving their supplies into forward positions.", Weitzel suggested, "Raids on ASC outposts and storage depots have increased by seventy-five percent over the past six weeks, Army Intelligence can vouch for that-. And while previously the most commonly stolen supplies were food and medicine, the emphasis has shifted to weapons and munitions. The malcontents are showing the tendency to escalate the fight in The Control Zone, shifting away from their former emphasis of activity- at this site anyway- of setting a stage for escape."

"Suggesting what?", Glenmont asked, sensing that Weitzel was way out on a cracking limb- which she was-, "That they've spent years working to escape and then suddenly they've just given up the idea and have elected to fight out an existence here? That seems like a very drastic mind-shift in three months."

"Possibly, yes.", Weitzel conceded, "Or maybe they don't need these ships to make their escape anymore."

Glenmont saw the direction that Weitzel was going and laid his snare in her path, "-Which all fits neatly into _another_ theory that you just happen to have readily available for us. Right?"

"Right.", agreed Weitzel, "A theory, agreed, that I feel may be a valid one given the information I have in hand. Unfortunately, the IFD doesn't have the luxury of the resources that I need to either confirm or refute that theory. If anyone would like to volunteer the resources up, I'll be happy to do the leg-work and then stand by the findings- _either_ way."

From his position as one of the "haves" to Weitzel's of the "have nots", Glenmont asked, "And how's _that_ going for you?"

"-Pardon me for interrupting, General-.", Colonel Kalehahea cut in like an incorporeal voice from the heavens interceding in the petty squabbles of men, "Before you break the dueling pistols out to settle this- OMCS needs a sidebar discussion with the IFD once your meeting has concluded."

General Clarke nodded her approval, "We'll send Commander Witzel your way once we're finished here, Paté. And, this seems like a good point to issue an action item and move on. This one is going to require more than satellite or UAV photography. A do-out to everyone at the table- by noon I want to know what sentient assets can be brought to bear on this and how soon we can start getting data in. Consider this a high priority. I want to know what the malcontents are thinking and doing here."

"Next item-."

 **Brasilia, Brazil**

The official term that had been adopted by the Robotech Defense Force Army was MOUT: _Military Operations in Urban Terrain-_ though it did go by other names.

Second Lieutenant Edward Whilite, 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 4th Ranger Regiment had in the time that he and his troops had been conducting MOUT heard it go by several. Amongst the ones most popular with Whilite and his Rangers if for no other reason than it could still inspire a grin despite the stress and fatigue of urban combat was the handle hung upon it by the Brits. Rotating out of Brasilia ten days after 4th Ranger had rotated in, the soldiers of His Majesty's 8th Royal Marine Commandos had dedicated every waking moment that they interacted with 4th Rangers to impart upon their replacements the concentrated knowledge and "lessons learned" they had acquired in a month's time conducting MOUT.

This included the peculiar throwback term that they preferred of "FISH"; or, "Fighting In Somebody's House".

Accepting the wisdom and "how-to" pointers specific to Brasilia offered by the Royal Marines with just the obligatory "anything you can do, I can do better" bravado common to Type-A personalities, 4th Rangers had quickly and smoothly taken the baton and had even found itself occasionally using the adopted term, "FISH".

They had been carrying the baton, borrowing the wisdom of the Royal Marines, and adding elements of their own now for thirty-seven days.

In that time to 4th Rangers, from the Regimental CO down to the freshest private, of whom there were an ever-increasing number, it had become clear that neither "MOUT" nor "FISH" adequately described what they were engaged in and another term had been sought unofficially to frame it.

Someone had come up with the correct handle, an old term, but one that Whilite remembered and one that clicked immediately:

 _Rattenkrieg._

Rat warfare.

MOUT was a mode of warfare that the Rangers could easily switch into much as the Royal Marines before them had- this was something that tapped into the core values of their identity and the emphasis of their training when the conditions were just so. Stealth, superior gathering and application of intelligence in planning, effective small-unit tactics, and violence of action were all requirements of MOUT and central to the Ranger's being.

Conditions in combat, _any_ combat, and particularly urban combat were rarely _just so_ however.

What the Zentraedi Holocaust had not done to the city of Brasilia at the time that it had knocked the majority of the world's population centers back into the Stone Age- two months of imbedded conflict had.

The glass and steel construction of Brasilia's most prominent buildings that had caused the city to shine like a jewel in an alpine setting of lush green even after the rise of shoddy slum construction in the wake of the apocalypse had been horribly mauled. Neat and orderly streets had become porous battle lines fiercely disputed and tenuously held in the complex realm of three-dimensional warfare.

The world's first, self-proclaimed, "modern city" had in the blink of an eye joined the ranks of other war-ravaged cities of history such as Troy at the hands of the Greeks, Rome under the Vandals, Stalingrad by the Germans, Berlin by the Russians returning the favor, Hué, or more recently Islamabad, Budapest, or Hong Kong in the Global War.

Like these other cities of fame, hopes of quick and decisive action through maneuver and tactics had all but completely evaporated. Though gains were still made periodically through assaults on "key positions", the whole securing of Brasilia had bogged down into what was for the most part room-to-room fighting- a knife duel in a broom closet.

 _Hopes_ of a decisive action had actually been just that. If military planners had learned nothing else about MOUT over the years it was that the more successful the offense, the more logistically draining on the attacking force. Every building, block, road and alleyway had to be actively held and defended or what was yours by day would quickly become the enemy's again by night. These "holding forces" required all of the support of any combat unit, increasing the strain on logistics and thus adding to the number of units dedicated to Brasilia yet again. _Hopes_ were just that and quickly dashed as the whole thing had become a great slogging match almost quicker than either the RDF-Army or ASC had been able to support.

For this reason, _rattenkrieg_ seemed the most appropriate term to frame what fighting had become in Brasilia.

Martial terminology always sounded best in German anyway.

And what had been the cause?

It was hardly important, Whilite knew, but still it was a very human question that one could not help but ask after seeing the volume of casualties choppered away daily.

It had had something to do with the assassination of a Zentraedi separatist leader some three months before by a well-organized cell of a known "human defense" militia that just happened to coincide with a joint RDF-ASC air strike on the downed Zentraedi cruisers that the separatists had been restoring to facilitate their escape from imprisonment on Earth.

-And Santa Claus would be delivering toys to the good children of the world in under a week.

There was no question that the strike on the space cruisers had been a sanctioned and formally organized military operation under the auspices of some RDF and ASC agreement or another-. But for Whilite's money, and having gained some insight into how things worked in "The Zone" which was dominated by Southern Cross influence- the assassination of the Zentraedi leader whose name Whilite could no longer remember was as likely carried out by the Boy Scouts as any human defense militia.

Their intel had been too accurate, the planning and execution too tight, and the fact not broadly known that state-of-the-art military hardware had played a part all added up to something else.

That had been the spark.

The kindling was not nearly as complex. The Zentraedi malcontents in the region were through with Earth. They had toiled and labored under the promise of escape only to have it snatched at the eleventh hour from them. It was a frustration that was easy to understand and one that had exploded into violence.

This was the fire that Whilite, his Rangers, and God only knew how many other units in The Control Zone of northern South America were now fighting. Only, who could have expected it to grow so large and spread so far?

When frustration turned to violence, one could expect an intense flash- but a localized one. After all, not every Zentraedi in The Zone was a follower of the slain leader, nor had they all expected to make their escape aboard three scout-class vessels. For some reason though, the flash had caught and spread as a blaze as far south as Argentina, and as far north as to show increased malcontent activity in The Outlands of the North American Sector.

Maybe the malcontents were just looking for an excuse across the board- _maybe._

What was more disturbing was that the "flash" of violence had not subsided in three months as one would have expected it to as the fuel of frustration was burned away. The violence had been sustained- _escalated_ even, and most disturbingly with a sense of purpose. The violence had brought in both the RDF and ASC in force in sometimes-coordinated efforts to quell it, and many small regional disturbances had been stabilized.

In the process of stabilization though, tangible evidence of what units in the field had come to suspect began to emerge. There were signs that malcontent groups were acting cooperatively- _networking_. Military supplies or hardware stolen on a raid in Columbia might be discovered in a malcontent camp in Venezuela or moving south into the depths of the Amazon basin following an ambush on a Zentraedi supply party moving along a known route.

Nothing conclusive- maps containing routes from origin to destination had become scarce at best as intelligence artifacts found on the bodies of slain warriors- only _portions_ of routes were now found.

Intuition and some intelligence-based insight had in the field lent itself to successful raids on temporary supply depots and munitions dumps in dense jungles or difficult to access regions all over The Control Zone, but had never yielded answers to where the material might be going and why.

Coupled with the drop-off in prisoners that could be taken alive in raids- the Zentraedi had developed the tendency to kill their own wounded when on the retreat rather than the familiar and standard abandonment- sentient intelligence was meager as well. Even "snatch and grab" operations had taken on new complexity as the intended prisoners seemed bent on death before disclosure of any beneficial knowledge they might possess.

Malcontents were now more likely to shoot themselves or fall on a grenade upon realizing their situation in a snatch-and-grab as they were to mount a futile resistance. Even the successfully captured had recently begun to take gruesome measures to end their own lives- Whilite having heard of cases where unattended prisoners might chew off their own tongues or tear out the radial arteries of their wrists with their own teeth to avoid interrogation.

Fanaticism in terms of duty and loyalty had returned to the Zentraedi malcontents where it had been dissolving only months before. That much was clear.

The questions of _why,_ and _to whom_ the new loyalty was oriented was still yet to be answered.

Intelligence entities both military and civilian were battling over various explanations.

Brutal but otherwise unsophisticated raids on isolated human population centers that had once been the means by which malcontent Zentraedi acquired sustenance had dwindled. Shockingly, the raids on the "soft" targets of civilian areas had been replaced by increasingly effective attacks on military ones.

Seemingly overnight, the Zentraedi had rediscover their military discipline and had brought it to bear on their UE-RDF and ASC counterparts who had been initially taken off-guard. Perhaps it had been the nature of the Zentraedi targets of attack that had surprised the terran military.

In the past, rogue Zentraedi had chosen to attack the most visible elements of the UE military forces- units in the field. Whether as Warriors of The Empire or as malcontent hostages of an alien world, their eagerness for a fight had remained constant.

The norm had become well-planned and equipped raids on supply bases and routes that avoided contact with UE military combat units. After-action assessments of the raids also suggested that the raids had specific objectives in terms of supplies and materials stolen.

Certainly, food, clothing, weapons, and ammunition were still high items on the list of those stolen in any raid- but peculiar things had begun to appear on those lists as well. Most noteworthy of these items and that which caused the average grunt to mst scratch his head was the theft of disassembled Zentraedi mecha components that were awaiting collection and destruction.

Whilite thought that the Zentraedi intent was clear: to gather enough parts to assemble functional mecha. While this was a reasonable assumption, there were elements to that line of reason that made no sense.

First and foremost was the fact that Zentraedi mecha required a full-sized _Zentraedi pilot._ The Earth had not seen a full-sized Zentraedi in years. Following The Robotech War, even the most die-hard Zentraedi warriors had eventually turned themselves into "indoctrination centers" to be micronized and re-educated. It wasn't so much a matter of choice as it was a matter of survival. Food in the quantity required to sustain a full-sized Zentraedi did not exist readily, especially in the areas most heavily populated by the giants- and furthermore the average warrior did not have the knowledge to identify food in the raw or the skills to hunt for them.

Surrender became a more pleasant alternative to starvation once the aliens had begun to experience the latter.

Humans had quickly recognized that micronized Zentraedi would begin to desire their former size superiority once their bellies were full and had moved with conviction to make sure that the ability to return to that state was safely out of the hands of the aliens. "Scaling chambers" were either confiscated and secured or destroyed utterly wherever they were found, and exhaustive efforts along these lines had left military and civilian leaders confident that no Zentraedi would again attain a giant's stature without supervised UE Government consent.

Secondly, and no less important in Whilite's mind in the mystery of the stolen mecha components was the fact that with as many "pieces" as had been stolen, the total number of functional mecha that could be assembled from them was relatively few. Unofficial estimates and outright speculation that Whilite had heard varied from fifty to a hundred Battle Pods at most. Even a hundred Battle Pods- _if_ they had capable pilots and _if_ they could be massed- would still be quickly and easily overwhelmed by air and mecha forces of the UE militaries.

To Whilite's thinking, a Zentraedi veteran _had_ to be painfully aware of this.

Of course, Whilite realized, desperation often clouded logical thinking. Perhaps the mentality was for the Zentraedi that it was better to die in a way that they knew than to live in a way that they did not.

Whilite was sure that the RDF could accommodate them.

The lieutenant forced himself to mentally back off of matters he had little insight on and less ability to control- though the temptation to speculate was great.

His world was smaller, more black and white. His world was _rattenkrieg_ for now- mostly.

 _Mostly_ being the operative word, as today he and his unit along with the rest of Echo Company were going to be able to fight as Rangers again.

Regiment had determined that the two square blocks that the joint force had been operating in for two weeks was secure and stable enough to be turned over to a holding force of ASC Army and Global Military Police, and that the more skilled elements of the Rangers could move to expanding the pocket of human control in Brasilia.

There would be an assault this morning.

The decision to expand by assault from the stabilized "Dodge Sector" into the area on the map of Brasilia now dubbed "Abilene" (a wit somewhere in command having decided that good names for the city's sectors should all come from the rough-and-tumble towns of the Classic American West) had not been a snap one. Reconnaissance by remotely controlled drones and by squad-sized probe elements had been ongoing in Abilene as well as other sectors since the arrival of 4th Ranger, and had supported detailed planning for the event.

The missing element that had prevented the preferred Ranger method of rapid and decisive advancement on any objective had been the element of _security_.

4th Ranger had arrived in Brasilia eager, but from the moment of first boots on the ground had been spread woefully thin across the spectrum of duties and responsibilities involved in securing and holding an urban battlefield. The Royal Marines had warned of this, as they had warned of relatively inert quality of the ASC in Brasilia.

The Southern Cross forces in their various forms, the Royal Marines had reported and 4th Ranger had discovered, were technically proficient in the arts of MOUT- but their sense of urgency- their _eagerness_ was less admirable.

They had no fire in the belly to _support_ operations.

Or, perhaps they had no fire in the belly to support _RDF Army_ operating in "their city".

Certainly, the ASC infantry or specialized units of GMP could be trusted to hold a sector like Dodge that had been gutted, flattened, and combed a dozen times over by 4th Ranger to quell malcontent resistance. It was even being entrusted to provide security for the four refugee camps that the corps of engineers had been forced to raise outside of the city limits for the tidal flood of humanity that washed out of a city in turmoil and the countertide that always seemed to gravitate toward the stabilizing force of the Army from the rural areas.

This was far from they being deemed trustworthy of defending the rear and flanks of a Ranger force assaulting new territory.

Looking over one's shoulder was no way to advance, and 4th Ranger knew and understood it universally.

What was required to allow 4th Ranger to regain forward momentum was a force that could be relied upon to watch the backs of those who were focused on pressing forward.

The solution had been one that the Royal Marine Commandoes had requested specifically, but whose arrival had come too late to support them but who were proving indispensable to 4th Ranger. 129th Infantry had assumed the mantle of patrolling and holding the "secured" areas of Brasilia, and were performing that role with distinction. Units had even been drawn to support the Ranger spearhead in the assaults that had expanded control into Dodge Sector much as some of the same units were supporting the assault this morning.

As effective as they were in MOUT, the 128th Infantry did not provide that little extra edge of intimidation needed to give the malcontents pause when thinking of resistance to UE military expansion in Brasilia. For all of their efforts, the 129th was familiar to the malcontents who saw them for what they were- another RDF-Army infantry unit.

The answer to the "dominance in action" question was to find something _unfamiliar_ to the Zentraedi- a unit that could shock them into a lingering fear. His Majesty's Royal Marine Commandos had known the answer and had set the request into motion- it was 4th Ranger's fortune to reap the benefits.

The answer was Gurkhas.

More specifically, His Majesty's 1st Brigade of Royal Gurkha Rifles (1RGR) had arrived eight days before under cover of darkness and by that dawn had already shown the value of their presence. A "legacy unit" of the pre-Unification British Army in the same way that 4th Ranger was one to the Ranger regiments of The Army of the United States, 1RGR had a celebrated history to it.

Gurkha (or as speakers of the word's native tongue pronounced it, _Gorkhas_ ) had been part of the British Army since India had been a territory of The Empire. Selected for their loyalty and ferocity in battle as a "martial people", the Gurkhas of Nepal and affiliated peoples of Northern India had contributed to military victories under the Union Jack since 1815.

Though Unification had thinned the purity of the Gurkha Brigades' blood somewhat- their composition no longer predominantly Nepalese or Indian- their ferocity and tenacity in battle had not dwindled as a result..

Field Marshal Manekshaw, former Chief of Staff of the British Indian Army had perhaps said it best when he had been famously quoted, "If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or he is a Gurkha."

Lieutenant Whilite now understood what had inspired Manekshaw to those words over a century before, but what was more impressive to him was the willingness- the near _compulsion_ \- of the Gurkhas to kill the enemy before them _._ This was not satiation of bloodlust though, but rather a disciplined, dutiful, almost religiously-obligatory fulfillment of a sworn oath.

1RGR's first night in Brasilia, their boots not yet dusty from the filth of the battered city, the Gurkhas had found (some rumored _sought out_ ) no less than a dozen skirmishes. Thirty-six Gurkhas had found themselves choppered out to hospital as a result, seventeen had been killed. In trade, Zentraedi malcontents had left sixty-three dead in the streets, alleys, and gutted buildings of the sectors the Gurkhas had been rushed into as reinforcement.

Steady aim of rifle, strong thrust of bayonet, and even the skilled use of traditional Gurkha sacred _kukri_ knife had earned these stoic warriors immediate recognition and respect from both 4th Ranger and the enemy.

The Zentraedi name of _narik kruvok_ , translated loosely into "warriors who carry the _kruvok_ " had even been heard by battlefield intelligence staff uttered over open radio channels referring to the Gurkhas and the kukri that did resemble with their heavy, forward curving blades the Zentraedi _kruvok_ knife.

The kukri still was a badge particular to the Gurkhas and not solely a ceremonial one. Both human and Zentraedi combatants in Brasilia were aware of the increasing frequency with which decapitated Zentraedi bodies were being found.

As with all "legacy units", 1RGR had not been allowed in its transition into the RDF-Army to rest on its historical laurels. Rather, their aggressive combat philosophy and their prowess at backing it up with action had made them an excellent operational test bed for the latest experiment in Robotechnology to be added to the Army inventory- the Cyclone.

Formally known in the design phase as the "Military Veritech Riding Armor System" (MVRAS- dubbed by some Army wit had cleverly dubbed _Move Our Asses_ ) the concept when proposed within the Robotech Design Bureau must have elicited at least one chuckle as truly pushing the envelope of the possible as it applied to the domesticated alien science.

The MVRS satisfied a practical military requirement of high and rapid mobility for the infantryman in its form as a motorcycle, while satisfying another in augmenting the physical and combat abilities of the infantryman as a component suit of power armor.

Early prototypes were generously described as disastrous as the technical complexities of disintegrating a machine at the component level and reassembling it entirely into a different form were encountered, studied, and resolved. No deaths but multiple injuries were incurred even before the quirky mecha system entered is "locomotive transformation" testing stages, and the program had skirted cancelation on more than one occasion.

Only championing from the highest levels of command- rumored to be MCS General Breetai himself- had saved the program. Breetai's advocacy of the MVRS's potential value carried its own weight, but was echoed vehemently by every former Imperial Zentraedi Warrior who now served in the UE military- which was to say _most_ of them.

While the MVRS was a concept that filled a niche in what designers at The Robotech Design Ministry _speculated_ would be needed in case of a large-scale encounter with the phantom alien menace of The Invid- former Imperial Warriors _knew._

Zentraedi memories of battlefields flooded with thousands, hundreds of thousands, sometimes _millions_ of Invid Troopers and Shock Troopers did not fade easily or with time. Maximizing the potential of every infantryman was not just prudent but an imperative for survival. The MVRS, while not the perfect solution, was the _best_ solution that could be sped into production and fielded.

While there was no data available to assess its effectiveness against Invid, its performance against Zentraedi malcontents in its limited application was promising.

The marriage of the Gurkha and the Cyclone was an ideal match enhancing the potential of both, and for these reasons and had brought them to Brasilia.

Lieutenant Whilite recognized the martial skills of Company C, 70th Gurkha Rifles, the unit assigned to augment Echo Company' s presence in Dodge and support their movement into Abilene, but there was more to the men who carried the kukri than their performance in the fight. These men (for stubborn reasons of tradition, no woman had yet been accepted into the ranks of the Gurkhas) had a quiet certainty about them, an earnestness in their conduct of all things including themselves that made an ally feel safe in their midst.

There was something that could be said for that as the Gurkhas would be providing perimeter security for the Rangers of Echo Company as they cleared and secured a building on the fringe of Abilene known only as "Three". It was certainly more than could be said for ASC whose perimeters were notoriously flimsy and porous when their role was one of support and not the primary action.

Lt. Whilite opened the VeLCDRo-fastened cover flap of his wristwatch and checked the time though mission and Zulu time would have both been readily visible had he simply snapped his helmet visor down into position. The M-36 tactical helmet portion of the greater "Stalker" body armor system had many functions and features that were advantageous in battle, but for some things there was the comfort of doing things the "traditional" way.

Three minutes

Three minutes until the "go" word of "Peacemaker" would start Operation Masterson- which in planning and up to the day before had been Operation Hickok. 3rd Platoon's Staff Sergeant Michelle Byerly had joked about the change with Whilite upon hearing of it, pointing out that someone had probably reminded the planning staff that Wild Bill had been shot in the head from behind ending an illustrious career abruptly.

No one would admit to putting stock in a clear jinx, but no one wanted to tempt fate either.

So, it had become Operation Masterson to seize by speed and violence of action a large chunk of Abilene Sector in one brutal grab. Painstaking surveillance and reconnaissance had fed into meticulous planning and staging, and still somehow to Whilite's chagrin it had come to squatting in a sewer pipe in the minutes leading up to "go hour" calf-deep in water that would have had to have been filtered, boiled, _and_ chlorinated to be elevated to _septic_.

Still, the manhole cover leading up from the drainage sewer was a scant sixteen meters from the objective structure's southwest corner. Moreover, this potential path of approach showed minimal signs of monitoring by the thirty-five to forty-five Zentraedi malcontents estimated by intelligence to occupy "Three" at any given time.

The Zentraedi, unfamiliar as they had been with the complexities of urban combat and three-dimensional warfare at the time of their marooning on Earth had since shown their great capacity for adaptation in learning. Early in their struggle for Brasilia they had learned the valuable, bloody lesson that attacks to their defensive positions did not always come from street level. They had learned to mine rooftops or at least post guards to prevent easy vertical incursion. They had learned that sewers, underground electrical and mechanical access tunnels could also provide their opponents with the advantage of surprise much the same way that Invid had been known to sometimes prepare a battlefield with tunneling.

The latter association made and the consequences of unpreparedness remembered, many sewers and infrastructure tunnels had been collapsed. Some had been collapsed expertly, rendering them useless and impassible. The RDF Army Corps of Engineers had found that others had been collapsed more hastily, and with effort could be salvaged for use in covert or offensive operations.

Fortunately for 1st and 3rd Platoons, the malcontents had not been as thorough as they could have been in collapsing the sewer lines approaching and within Abilene Sector. An assessment by the combat engineers that the lines were "salvageable" in terms of providing a route of covered movement had been proven true by a weeks's work done mostly by hand.

An additional stroke of good Fortune for the Rangers was that the malcontents had not yet learned in full the value of periodically checking on areas ore avenues of approach that they considered secure. It was a costly lesson to be learned by them today at the hands of their Ranger instructors- but a lesson that the Rangers hoped the pupils would _not_ be able to pass on to their comrades.

2nd and 4th Platoons would insert from Lakota "slicks" via fast line once the opening assault had stunned Three's occupants. Threats to the fast-roping Rangers would be confirmed as clear before the first sounds of rotor blades echoed in the desolate streets. Carefully executed probing operations conducted by RAV surveillance units had shown that the building was not unlike a turtle- uniformly hard throughout the "shell"- but relatively soft once it was penetrated.

After the peril of helicopter insertion, 2nd and 4th Platoons were expected to have the easiest work.

"Breeching team, get your game faces on.", Sgt Byerly whispered in the dark from the third position in 1st Squad's combat order. She was apparently keeping as close an eye on the time as Whilite and the steady, serious tone of her voice told of it as it carried back along the line, "Secure the breech and the stairwell and open the path for the follow-on fire teams. Watch your intervals and keep your movements clean. Two minutes-."

Imbedded with 2nd Squad Whilite would move in with the first of the fire teams but would hold just inside the breech with Byerly in the command position. Though not on the point of the building clearing, this position was far from "safe", and in the dark Whilite felt for the grip of his M-36 "Bulldog" in its leg bag and found it to be there and the firing safety on.

For this operation like other building clearings that Echo Company had conducted in Brasilia, the Rangers had given up- sometimes reluctantly- their rugged and familiar new best friends, their M-35-A "Electric-Terminator" assault pulse rifles.

The M-36 was for all intents and purposes the same weapon, firing the new and same powerful 8x55mm caseless round as the M-35-A and with the same rate of fire and accuracy. Though the Rangers had all qualified on the new weapon prior to deploying to Brasilia, the "bull-pup" configuration of the M-36 did still feel alien to most from time to time. The "bull-pup" rifle deviated from the classic assault rifle configuration in that it moved the breech, magazine, and electrical firing system to the rear of the grip instead of forward. The advantage was that it allowed the same barrel length, equaling the same accuracy, but housed in a weapon that was overall shorter.

To "traditionalists", like Whilite though it would always be just a little awkward.

The shorter forward barrel length had also meant sacrificing the tube-magazine fed, pump-action grenade launcher still standard to the M-35-A in favor of a single-shot variant. As a grenade launcher was of reduced value in building clearing operations, the loss of the higher capacity system was not mourned greatly.

The innovation that both the M-35-A and M-36 both brought the Rangers, was one that had been anticipated for years in assault rifle development and that was now delivering- nearly maintenance-free use. Both weapons had traded conventional gas-operated, mechanical firing systems for an electrical one. With no moving parts involved in capturing and utilizing the expanding gas of a fired round to chamber the next came the elimination of weapons jamming due to build-up of grit.

In proving and acceptance testing, neither the M-35-A nor the M-36 had _ever_ jammed due to particulate contamination. Testers had even gone so far as to actively pour sand and dust into the barrels before clearing and firing- all with the same flawless performance as the final result.

Still, M-35-A versus M-36, Whilite preferred the "classic" configuration.

Building clearing presented tactical challenges that could not all be resolved by a single weapon or MOS, even the M-36 in the hands of a Ranger. Sometimes the resolution did not lie in technical innovation, but rather in going (as some called it) "old school".

The breeching team of 1st Squad had embedded within its fire teams a pair of sappers borrowed from the engineers, as did each squad in each platoon on-line for the assault this morning. Along with their standard gear of primer cord, plastic explosives, and pre-formed charges was the "old-school" tool for opening doors that made no pretense of sophistication. Each sapper carried a sub-machinegun slung to be able to join the fight if needed, but for their primary task of clearing doors and obstacles each carried an over-and-under, double barrel, 10-gauge shotgun.

Like the sappers carrying them, the weapon made no claim of subtlety, but was without argument an _effective_ tool.

"Forward Eyes show clear, wings and rollers. –Suicide Tinks in place and standing by.", came a voice over the secure tactical frequency. As set down in the operational timetable, the surveillance team liaison would communicate a brief and final situational report to the assault force. The few words spoken were actually the culmination of hours of work that had been done by a remote surveillance unit attached to 4th Rangers for this very purpose.

Hours before, nimble and nearly silent, RAV-6 "Tinkerbelle" surveillance probes had been flown into the target structure. Each drone, slightly smaller than the average dinner plate was a carbon fiber mini-airframe that rode a cushion of air generated by a centrally mounted rotating wing propeller.

A light weight optics and audio package gave the operator and anyone else granted access to the InfoLink system virtual eyes and ears into any place the RAV-6 could be maneuvered.

The Tinkerbelle's ground-roaming cousin, the RGV-3 "Woodchuck" provided the same functions and features as its airborne counterpart, but was carried over _terra firma_ by four independently motor driven, articulated leg-mounted wheels. The Woodchuck could negotiate all but the most broken or cluttered ground, and more importantly for the purposes of MOUT- move up and stairs and over most urban debris. Proponents of the Woodchuck were also quick to point out that because its earthbound nature allowed the RGV to sit idle, it had a considerably longer loiter time in an observation position than the RAV-6, which inevitably would drain its battery supply with the effort of flight.

Lt. Whilite was satisfied to allow the argument to be one indulged in by the well-trained operators controlling the two systems. It was the fruits of their labor that concerned him, and _juicy_ fruit it was.

Through the Personal Integrated Combat System (PICS) mounted on the left forearm of his body armor, Whilite toggled through the multiple camera feeds available to him through surveillance application. Each view as seen through the PICS's small, but high-resolution LCD screen was a view of the world into which he and the Rangers under his command would be charging in roughly a minute.

Around him, his Rangers were similarly taking last peaks at the surveillance feeds to familiarize themselves visually with their assigned objectives. Specifics of a room's appearance could and likely would change once doors were blown in and the bullets started flying- but no harm came from trying to see what could be seen only moments before one had to be there in the flesh.

Mostly the views of the building's key corridors were clear and devoid of malcontent sentries. The Zentraedi in Brasilia had become aware that their enemy could attack at night and actually preferred to do so, but their vigilance in defense still tended to wane in the pre-dawn hours. It was natural to human and Zentraedi alike that in the absence of a perceived or material threat, boredom set in and with it the tendency to lose focus.

There were no sentries walking the three floors of the low-rise building - apparently the attention to defense was being directed outward, and these eyes were likely growing heavy with tedium and the promise of first light.

Whilite felt in his gut that the prime hunting hour was almost upon them.

For himself, Whilite knew that there was nothing more to be gained by viewing surveillance feeds. _Preparing_ was over, the _doing_ time was almost at hand. He knew all that he was going to know going into the fight- and for any other contingency he was going to have to rely on his training and that of the Rangers around him.

That had gotten them through before and would again today.

As individually capable as a Ranger was in his training and the technologies he brought to a fight- there was still an enormous dependency on all supporting personnel doing their jobs in order to allow him to operate safely and achieve the mission objectives.

For instance, Whilite knew that as part of their defensive posture of "Three", the malcontents had set anti-personnel mines in all of the stairwells and covering the standard points of entry. While the assault had no intention of going in through the front door, there no avoiding mines at some point. Adept as their sappers were at clearing mines, the Rangers knew that they could not do this in person faster and more surely than a malcontent could detonate a mine.

The quandary of clearing this type of threat was solved by the same support element that was responsible for locating them.

Both the RAV-6 and RGV-3 had since their conception been realized by both EOD and their developers to be ideal for remotely clearing explosives, mines, and booby-traps. As a result, "sapper packages" had been developed for both platforms.

Consisting of an easily mounted plastic explosive charge, the sapper package transformed the Tinkerbelle into a "Suicide Tink", and the Woodchuck into the more coarsely nicknamed- "You're Fucked".

Politically correct names not withstanding- Tinkerbelles and Woodchucks rigged with sapper packages had been moved into position already to neutralize the threats that had been discovered.

Whilite was certain that if the operators did their job, if he did his, and the hundreds of others supporting this morning's assault all did theirs- there was nothing to be worried about.

This was mildly comforting.

"Thirty seconds.", Sgt Byerly announced, adding for its motivational qualities the first half of Echo Company's unofficial mantra, "Kill something every day-."

Twenty-five sets of lips formed the unified reply in the darkness as final preparations were completed.

"- _Even if it's small-."_

"Homestead" was as good a callsign for divisional HQ as any, and "Lawman" seemed an appropriate one for the voice of C2 coming from the Joint Operations Center over the encrypted tactical channels.

The JOC was actually a room specially constructed by the engineers in a corner of the warehouse on the outskirts of Brasilia that also served as Division HQ for the 129th Infantry and barracking for its senior officers and staff. Junior officers, NCOs, and enlisted were similarly accommodated in the six other warehouses of what had once been part of a sprawling industrial park before having been thoroughly looted by refugee and malcontent alike, or in satellite tent camps that that had been erected within the post perimeter.

Whatever the original purpose of the structure, it had taken the Corps of Engineers just over a week to make it serviceable for Army use, and this was well before the arrival of 4th Ranger as an attachment to 129th Infantry. What had been gutted, corrugated steel shells had quickly become ready housing for the equipment and facilities to not only make the former warehouses a functioning command post, but to support all of personnel assigned to the command.

Captain Duc Ho Nguyen, Echo Company, 4th Ranger Regiment, found many things about MOUT in Brasilia to be to his disliking. Among the top of the list and in varying order depending on how the offending element was affecting him at that moment were things such as: having to secure and hold a population center not only from the malcontents who one would expect conflict from, but also from the city's own population.

The areas of the city that were considered "in dispute" or in flux were porous not only to the Zentraedi threat, but also to the threat from looters and pillagers. Not that all that was worth stealing from what remained of Brasilia hadn't already been stolen, but the lowest form of human life still seemed determined to try to carry off what was left.

It was more than the parasitic nature of looters that offended Nguyen- it was the fact that they inevitably chose to skirmish with Army forces when discovered. Rarely did this result in deaths or serious injuries for the Army, but regularly ended _badly_ for the unscrupulous..

Gratifying as it would have been to simply leave the parasitic elements to tend to their own wounds (or die from them), the Army was obligated to provide evacuation and medical assistance in these cases. This translated to Army resources- personnel, evacuation helicopter flight hours, medical supplies, hospital beds, food- all going to patching together the lowest denomination of the species and thus being unavailable for a _soldier._

Humanity had a strange way of cannibalizing itself in times of strife. If it wasn't the looters, it was the _ACW_ s. _Avenging Civic Warriors_ \- as Nguyen's men had started to call them- were that peculiar breed of human who felt obligated to join in the defensive fight for their home, but without benefit of training, organization, coordination wwith friendly forces- the basics.

ACWs having formed small partisan bands in the early days of the battle for Brasilia had become a scarce and endangered species quickly. Those who had not been killed at the eager hands of malcontents had either lost heart and abandoned the fight when it was clear that the Zentraedi would not be driven off by their sheer determination, or had given up on "home" when "home" had become a gutted shell. Others had surrendered the fight to hunger and hardship- the thrill and romance of war having lost its sheen- or had found themselves battling more looters than Zentraedi.

The Army had been forced to chopper a good many ACWs out to hospital in the early days, but their presence in Brasilia had dwindled quickly.

Sadly, and the most detestable aspect of the ACW phenomena, unlike looters these urban vigilantes had a nasty habit of leaving booby-traps in their wake as the left the combat zone. Some were unsophisticated and obvious, others showed true ingenuity. All had done in a malcontent or looter in the battle's three months.

Unfortunately, booby-traps did not discriminate and Nguyen's Rangers had taken casualties of varying severity compliments of ACWs who had long since skipped town.

Fighting the enemy was never the hardest part- it was the peripheral complexities that made war truly hell.

Nguyen, his Rangers- _all_ of the terran military forces in Brasilia under the auspice of defending something- were also inevitably burdened by the innumerable human tragedies that they were aware of but could do little about.

This was the weight of seeing a displaced population dependent completely upon the Army for protection and sustenance, and with no clear sense of their future. They could only watch as "home" was pulverized within earshot in hopes that one day there would be something left to return to.

There were also the wanderers who straggled into the refugee camps, mostly in groups. These were the souls who had come great distances , braving hot zones and combat areas looking for some shelter from a deteriorating region and often finding only a variation on the nightmare they had fled.

Then there were the worst in Nguyen's mind- the "shell people". Those who could be found in any displaced group of humanity. Those who still breathed, ate, went through all the motions of life- but whose eyes were windows to a hollow space. These waited for whatever would come next without any hope or purpose.

One grew hardened against it all quickly- and maybe that was the most loathsome part of it all.

Maybe it was because it was the holiday season that he conditions in Brasilia felt particularly bleak to Nguyen. Holidays were a strange time to be in the military and especially if you were in a deployed unit.

One would be inclined to believe that having others around you, going through the same thing would help- and in some ways it did. Often small tokens of good will and gestures of kindness were more common this time of year in between even the members of the most hardened combat units. Certainly, the support elements from USO to the mess staff did their best to bring the holidays to Brasilia- and their efforts were appreciated.

As one of the strange paradoxes of human nature though, there was something in forcing the holidays that gave it an artificial quality. But there was no question about the underlying effort and sentiment that was behind the attempt.

In the end, everyone had their own coping mechanisms.

Captain Nguyen had his regular emails and sometimes even paper letters from home. Many of his Rangers had this comfort and were helped along by it. Those who did not sometimes, and especially during the holiday season, found themselves the beneficiaries of home base and USO sponsored letter campaigns. These letters were admittedly no substitute for notes from a loved one, but they had the benefit of being a pleasant surprise- and that itself was a change from the norm in The Control Zone.

Of the letters he received from family, electronically or on paper, Nguyen especially looked forward to those from his eldest son, Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen, 443rd Regiment, RDF Army Corps of Engineers.

Duc Ho Nguyen had no _favorite_ among his children, loving them all equally for their unique personalities and gifts. Khoa was different though in that he, also an Army officer, had the most in common with his father in his chosen path in life. This was not to say that every experience was analogous, but even with Khoa's first deployment Duc could feel the bond of something shared growing between them. Toil, exhaustion, distance from home- all were a kinship shared without having to drone on as one might have to with someone who did not live that life in order to establish that understanding.

And there were the things that fell between the written lines. Things that were expressed in an included random thought, a choice of phrase that could only be understood between comrades, or friends, or father and son- or something that was all of those combined.

Khoa's letters were the ones Duc read with the greatest of ease, and his letters to his eldest son the ones he wrote that flowed with the least effort.

Nguyen had received such a letter the day before.

He had fought the urge to open and read it immediately but rather with supreme self-control had folded it up and kept it in his pocket reserving it. It was still in his pocket as the moments until Operation Masterson ticked away. It would be his carrot when the day's work was done, but for now Nguyen needed to focus on the work.

Focus would normally not have been a problem for Nguyen. Ranger unit officers were without exception "lead from the front" types who wanted to have their ass in the same grass as their units. That common peril and the responsibilities of being a commanding officer had a way of concentrating the mind.

"Higher Ranks"- which was not to say Colonel Gilliam, 4th Ranger Regiment's CO- had a slightly different philosophy.

Brigadier General Wendel, 129th Infantry's CO and the on-scene commander fro Brasilia by default was no stranger to combat either as a combatant or a unit commander. He understood why a company commander would want o be up front with his unit, but at the same time had made a decision he was entitled to make. Particularly that at some point in the chain of command there was going to be a "disconnect", or at least a disruption in the decision-making and execution flow.

In an operation like Masterson, where success depended less on the tactical decisions of officers at the front of the action than it did on the audacity and prowess of the clearing teams Wendel had chosen to make the split at the company CO level. For that reason the JOC, Homestead, was thick with silver railroad tracks representing the companies of 4th Ranger Regiment and for each a building to be seized this morning.

Protests from company COs dutiful to the men and women under them had gone up to Colonel Gilliam to include one from Nguyen.

His only comment had been, "Welcome to my world."

And that was that.

So, like every other company commander in the regiment, Nguyen found himself in the JOC serving as the "organic link" to the front for Wendel at the cost of having to use a synthetic one to command his unit.

Certainly in terms of the quantity and availability of information for decision-making, posting in the JOC was a second choice to none. The room glowed with LCD screens displaying video, LIDAR, and SAR feeds from orbiting UAVs as well as tables of commonly relevant information. Each company commander had a holopgaphic display table depicting in great detail the immediate surroundings of and interior of his unit's target building through which he could monitor their progress in real-time. And also there was the C2 staff provided by the headquarters unit to support each CO with communications and command support as was needed.

To Nguyen, it was all very impressive- but also very nearly sensory overload for something he felt he could achieve as easily by just being at "Three" with Echo Company.

It was also an option that was not one that he was free to choose. So, with unspoken apology that his Rangers clearly understood, he had taken final readiness reports from his platoon leaders, given the company their final briefing, and had parted ways with them- though only in the physical sense.

Captain Nguyen found strength to endure the separation in an unlikely source. If he, Nguyen reasoned, was _displeased_ with not having an active role in the fight, his "Top", Sergeant Major MacDonald was likely going crazy with the frustrations.

While Nguyen was distanced from his responsibilities as Echo Company commander, MacDonald was distanced similarly from his very "hands-on" responsibilities which were in fact every detail of _carrying out_ Nguyen's commands.

"Mac", Nguyen said as he surveyed the concealed positions of his Rangers seen in the holographic model as uniquely identified icons. With most identifiers Nguyen could picture a face- though some names were too new for memory to associate yet.

From the representation of icons though, the captain could see the assault force straining in their positions, waiting to surge forward at the giving of "the word". In many ways, by using the technology of the JOC he could be the eyes that saw all and prevented potential problems from becoming real ones. _Virtual_ command- one of those technological things that sounded great in principle, but came up lacking somehow when stood up next to traditional methods.

"-Give me a warm and fuzzy feeling-."

The sergeant major half-turned from where he stood over the controllers assigned to Echo Company C2, "All good here, Captain-. All squads in final positions, and we're wired and networked seven ways from Sunday The only thing we're missing is the dirty movie channel."

"I'm keeping you out of trouble with the wife.", Nguyen said dryly.

A little humor helped the seconds to tick by.

There was something about a Destroid that shifted the psychological balance in a fight.

There was something about a _company_ of Destroids that decided it.

Major Mason Colven, "Gator" Company, 149th Mecha Armor Regiment had cut his battle teeth in "conventional" armored cavalry in The Persian Gulf War and then The Global War, but even the main battle tank at near the apex of its technology did not possess the "shock and awe" instilled by Destroids.

Colven had been amongst the first of his MOS to be lured to "Project Tomahawk" in early 1999 with the ambiguous hint of the project's general goal: "a main battle tank with legs", or as the effort became known, "tracks to trudge".

Tankers being traditionalists by nature- neither their machines nor their mode of operation having changed radically since the establishment of tank warfare's basic principles by Heinz Guderian's _Achtung Panzer!_ \- the community had on the whole been skeptical of armor that moved like infantry. As with the advent of any technology though, some had seen potential in the concept that proposed a war machine with the mobility qualities of the humanoid form with the armament and protection of the tank.

Some, like Colven who had been a 1st Lieutenant when he had first become involved in Tomahawk and had loved the "science fiction" of the idea as much as the practical application had toughed it out through the highly technical design streamlining of the "Generation 1" Destroids. An initial handful of officers and NCOs had set down the doctrine and tactics for machines that had not walked outside of development and testing facilities yet. In some ways more innovative than Guderian sixty-something years earlier, they had begun to take the vision of a machine and turn it into a vision of a _combat system._

By the time that Tomahawk had completed its exhausting sprint through development- when it was clear that a viable fighting machine could and would be produced- the reins had been handed to _higher_ ranking officers whose names would be the ones remembered associated with Project Tomahawk. By then, Colven understood that this was life in a high-profile program, but that _he_ had been engaged since the beginning.

Colven was also actively engaged in late 2001 when the first experimental Destroid units had been deployed for field testing and validation. No one would remember the names of the men and women who took those first Destroids out, Colven knew, but none of the brass who wanted the glory of Tomahawk for themselves could erase archive still photos and video of those first "Destroid Drivers"- in which Colven's image was immortalized.

With a few exceptions, people had little nostalgia for technology- _immortalized_ did not mean _remembered._ Evidence of this was the "Gen 2" Mk-III Gladiators that Major Colven and his company of officers and warrant officers were at the controls of today for Operation Masterson. Military personnel and the civilian population down to school children could routinely identify the machine on sight, but few understood how the new Gen-2 series had come to be.

Colven had been there for that too.

Following The Zentraedi Holocaust of The Robotech War, a time commonly but not officially referred to as "The Scramble", when the Earth had been inundated with roughly a _billion_ marooned aliens- many still with their own mecha, _all_ hostile- the Gen-1 Destroids had received their first exposure to full-scale battle.

The results were mixed.

Engaging both Zentraedi mecha, mostly variants of the standard _Regult Combat Pod_ (translated poorly to "Battle Pod"- the name that had stuck for most humans), and Zentraedi infantry in their giant form under the darkening skies of a bombarded Earth, the uniform flaws of the Gen-1s became apparent.

Much as the famous _Panzerkampfwagen_ VI-B "Tiger II"- a significantly more sophisticated and robust machine had fallen victim individually in battle to the lesser but vastly more numerous M-4 "Shermans"- so had the Gen-1 Destroids been savaged in many battles by the fast but frail Regults or the sheer volume of Zentraedi infantry. Colven had seen some of these battles and had been in the thick of them- and had also been luckier than many to come away alive.

By the end of The Scramble, it was the fact that the marooned alien forces had exhausted both their munitions and what supplies they had to sustain themselves that saw the RDF victorious- _not_ military superiority in any category.

Slowly at first, and then in droves as sickness and starvation began to afflict the marooned Zentraedi ranks- the warriors surrendered themselves to "indoctrination centers" where the hastily conceived notion of _domesticating_ the former enemy was being put into practice. Surprisingly to humans, and with great thanks to the advocacy of conversion by General Breetai, the program had an 83% success rate.

Assimilation of a new, massive minority into the world demographic had immediate ramifications on all fronts. As it applied to the military, once loyalty of the aliens was assured, it meant an almost immediate reconstitution and expansion of the Robotech Defense Forces. The new "volunteers" brought with them many familiar military virtues- bravery, loyalty, tenacity- but more crucial was their _experience._

The common experience of the Zentraedi that had made their marooned force so formidable against the Terran one in The Scramble had been an experience gained fighting the threat that would almost certainly face humanity given enough time- The Invid.

Former Warriors of The Empire, from General Breetai down to the lowest warrior grade, warned their new human comrades of battles that would not involve thousands, but _millions._ Based on the RDF Army experiences of The Scramble, and with first-hand knowledge of the Invid threat from new Zentraedi allies- the lessons needed to rewrite the doctrine of _Mecha Warfare 101_ were in place.

Also in place was the list required changes to be made to Terran fighting machines to allow them to meet the new threat and stand a chance at survival.

The basic requirements of the Generation-2 Destroid had been established.

The general public for the most part did not know that all of these elements had converged to create the Destroids that they saw and recognized today any more than they recognized that the Destroid had been a critical stepping stone to the "favored child" of human Robotechnology- the Veritech Transformable Fighter.

At military "open houses", or in civilian technology journals, or in the flood of recruiting advertisements- civilians only saw smaller, faster, more agile Destroids that retained the lethality of firepower of the Gen-1s. They did not know the underlying expectation that the relative few might be called upon to face many times their number of Invid when the day of meeting arrived.

For that matter, Major Mason Colven only knew these things in _theory_ that was supported by his involvement in The Scramble. He had never seen an Invid- no human had. But he knew the ferocity the Zentraedi brought to a fight, and now understood where they had developed it.

Colven was willing but not anxious to try his hand against the same opponent.

There were no Invid on Earth, and in particular none in Brasilia- but there were malcontent Zentraedi.

The four platoons of Gator Company, 48 Gladiator Mk-IIIs strong- would participate in Operation Masterson today serving two functions. The first, the practical- they would serve as heavy bases of fire to establish and defend the perimeter of "Abilene". Secondly, and if successfully executed it would negate the need to perform their _primary_ function- to _look menacing._

Intimidation was still the keystone of psychological warfare- an enemy afraid to fight was an enemy already defeated.

Smaller than the Gen-1 Gladiator, the Mk-III at 8.4 meters still was grand enough in stature to give a micronized Zentraedi malcontent armed with a conventional assault rifle and perhaps at most an infantry anit-armor rocket a moment's pause. As with any fighting group, the malcontents had their share of the "foolish brave"- but their numbers were few. An anti-armor rocket, even an older system back when they were strictly known as _anti-tank_ , could still inflict serious damage on Gen-2 Destroid, possibly even knocking it out of action, if employed by an experienced user.

"Experienced" users were hesitant to fire such weapons however, recognizing that those who fired a rocket at a Destroid and did not take it out with the first hit were unlikely to get a second chance.

Unlike conventional armored vehicles that were highly vulnerable in urban combat zones because they lost the ability to maneuver- Destroids still retained all of their agility and the ability to instantaneously change their direction of attack. This did not preclude the possibility that a brave and experienced malcontent might lie in wait until he could take a first shot at a passing Destroid's weaker flank- but to account for this possibility the Destroids had adopted the protection of grenadiers like their tank predecessors.

For the purposes of Operation Masterson, Major Colven had supreme confidence in the units acting for his unit as grenadiers and supporting them in keeping the perimeter because the units were Gurkhas.

If the malcontents did not have a healthy fear of Destroids, they had learned to identify the 70th Gurkha Rifles by general appearance and by their Cyclones- and the malcontents _did_ fear the Gurkhas.

"Peacemaker."

This was the "go word" that Colven and his drivers had been anticipating since they had mounted up and moved into deployment position over an hour before. Still, even at the appointed 0-Hour, the actual order to execute was jarring as it promised violence and danger.

"Wake up, Gators!", Colven barked, making coarse his natural voice that he had been told on many occasions seemed soft for an officer in the profession of armored warfare, "Move out to assigned forward positions! All units go weapons-free."

Forty-eight Gladiators at 19 metric tons each surged into a dash that seemed impossibly fast for machines of their size from staggered holding positions four city blocks back from their objective. If the broad-fanning fusillade of smoke-generating rockets launched from batteries well in the rear of Dodge Sector were not an indication to Brasilia that a military operation had begun, the thunder of Destroid feet that cracked the pavement it crossed was.

The city quaked visibly along the path of their advance that quickly crossed into unsecured territory.

Within the confines of the armor-reinforced pilot's compartment, Colven felt fewer sensations from the actual movement of his Gladiator than he did the sensations generated by the Destroid's NeuroPilot control system. Identical in principle and the forerunner of the system that allowed Veritech pilots to efficiently control their machines in the Guardian or Battloid modes, the Gladiator's NeuroPilot system translated the pilot's natural neural impulses into ambulatory commands. Similarly, a feedback system provided the pilot with familiar sensations that his brain could interpret. Hence, though strapped securely in an aircraft style ejection seat, Colven could _feel_ the balance and movement of his Gladiator and its humanoid extremities.

Use of NeuroPilot took training- _extreme_ training to become proficient, but the system was tested and proven. Even "the jitters" that trainees commonly experienced in training- a fluttery sensation throughout the body when they disconnected from NeuroPilot- subsided quickly with repeated use of the system.

One even grew accustomed to the 3-D video image that was projected into the inside of the driver's helmet visor to give him a virtual view of the world that tracked with his head movements. Drivers very rarely vomited after graduating the training course, and Colven had not lost his lunch in years.

Being a Destroid Driver in combat was an odd merging of the virtual and real worlds. One recognized that one was encased in the strongest part of a machine clad in tons of armor, but the realism of NeuroPilot and the video and audio interfaces were enough to remind a pilot that he _was_ actually in combat.

As the navigational and tactical overlays projected onto the video image inside of Colven's helmet visor guided him through the dark and empty streets at the head of his platoon, he sensed and then saw the passage of Cyclones in motorcycle form to either side of his Gladiator. The Cyclones, either in motorcycle or Batttloid mode could easily keep pace with the Destroids and as a result were able to physically screen the larger machines even at a brisk pace of advance.

What Colven could not imagine feeling comfortable with, and what he admired the Gurkhas for was being so close to the trampling feet of tons of moving mecha. Responsibility for staying out from underfoot was the Gurkhas much in the same way that a small dog running with its master was responsible for not getting stepped on.

Mason was sure it had happened before, but he didn't want to think of the results, and he did not want any part of finding out if his speculation of the results was accurate.

They- Gator Company and their Gurkha grenadiers- would be in perimeter positions in seconds. So far, there had been no shots fired from windows or rooftops with their passing through the unsecured streets.

Every indication was that whatever malcontents were in Abilene Sector were in the process of being caught completely off-guard.

The building known for operational purposes as "Three" was by the naked eye simply a darker shape against a dark cityscape in Abilene Sector.

First light was beginning to soften the lowest edge of the eastern sky, but in the absence of streetlights or any type of artificial illumination for that matter made the seeing of anything but the crudest of details impossible.

Impossible, that was, unless you had _help_.

Corporal Armand König had "help" seeing all through an integrated optical enhancement riflescope that was currently showing the world in the milky green view to a well-trained sniper's eye. His spotter, Staff Sergeant Crowell was seeing the world in the same way, only through a spotter's scope that lacked the killing implement of the militarized Remington .350 Magnum rifle to which König's optics were attached.

Munich-born, but raised in various areas of the Middle East and South Africa as a result of his father's employment with a large energy corporation, König had learned to handle a rifle at an early age. It had been mainly for sport and competition before The Zentraedi Holocaust, but after-.

 _After_ , the skills had taken on a more serious application.

What König had not been aware of, and what he certainly had not been prepared for before qualifying for and beginning his training as an RDF Army sniper was the ragging he would receive from others in his chosen occupation because of the coincidental irony of his name. Though there was no family relation (Armand had checked since) it was a Major König who had fought the epic sniper's duel with and lost to Vassili Zaitsev in the rubble of Stalingrad. The ominous implications were not lost on Armand König, even before the additional benign taunting of other snipers.

This was not Stalingrad though, and though König had seen amateur Zentraedi approximations of "snipers", he had never seen one that qualified as a Vassili Zaitsev. This morning König had training, skill, and the proper equipment on his side.

Most importantly as it pertained to the sniper's trade- he had the element of surprise.

Crowell and König had moved into their position in a building a mere 400 meters away from "Three" just after dark the night before and resumed observation of the routines of the malcontents that they had monitored for several nights in a row.

The same watches, the same watch lengths- König had even begun to recognize four or five faces among the malcontent residents of Three. He recognized the guard walking the length of roof from the southeast to the southwest corner. There was no name attached to the face, but König knew him well enough by now to know that he smoked cigarettes in chains of three and within five minutes of the last could be counted upon to urinate off the roof into the dark street below.

An enemy's routine and adherence to it was one of the sniper's best friends.

König was less certain of the identity of the guard walking the northern sentry circuit of the roof. Maybe one of his "familiars", but with the guard's back to him mostly, the corporal could not be absolutely sure. It didn't matter, the path and pace the sentry walked was consistent even if the guard's identity was not as sure. A mark was a mark.

The southwest guard had finished what Crowell and König had come to call the "drag and drain" routine five minutes before and though he could not know it, t was sure to be his last time. Crowell was only waiting on the "go" word before ordering the shooter to engage. König was out of the direct communications loop, his focus being solely on training his weapon on the mark- keeping the "death dot" at the center of the crosshairs hovered over the center body mass.

Some shooters preferred to make head shots exclusively, and when the objective was to pin a large number of malcontents down by intimidation there was a certain benefit to making the head of one of their comrades disintegrate-. For the purpose of taking out a sentry with the first shot every time though, a soft-nosed .350 Magnum Remington put through the third shirt button did the trick.

König had made that particular shot over a hundred times in the course of this particular tour of "The Zone", and like those marks who had gone down in the tours before- none had yet to get up again.

"Shooter stand by.", Crowell said in a low, even voice that told König that the "go word" had come through.

"Standing by-."

Crowell made a final adjustment to his spotter's scope, "Target at Four-three-one meters, slight down angle. Wind left at three."

König had already set his scope to account for the correct range and only needed to make a slight shift left to compensate for windage.

A rising hiss of rocket motors rose from the rear of the sniper's position as the scheduled, opening barrage of tactical missiles bearing smoke warheads reached their apex somewhere overhead.

The sentry on the southwest corner of "Three" heard the sound as well as König could clearly see his expression change from one of boredom to one of shock. The Zentraedi's head began to tilt back as his eyes tracked the flight path of missiles unseen by König in their skyward path.

"Shoot"

König pulled the trigger as his lungs emptied in a controlled breath.

The modified Remington kicked hard through its carbon-fiber but into its master's shoulder as the silencer and flash suppressor reduced the weapon's report to little more than the heavy _smack_ sound of a fastball meeting a catcher's mitt.

The malcontent sentry was thrown backwards and vanished beneath König's line of sight as the heavy slug bore through his body.

"Target down.", König said, cycling the bolt of his rifle with a smooth, single action that did not require him to take his eye away from the scope. Brass clattered in the dark and while some shooters were religious about policing their spent casings, König would leave his behind.

A spent cartridge bore unique strike marks and was better than a calling card. If a sniper could develop a reputation- particularly a _lethal_ one- and the enemy knew him to be on the prowl in a sector, they would restrict their own movements and keep their heads down.

This was half of the sniper's operational value.

"Confirmed.", Crowell agreed, "Target down."

Responsible for clearing the roof of "Three" and keeping it clear of malcontents until elements of 4th Ranger could fast-rope in from Lakotas that were inbound at this moment, König had already shifted his crosshairs to the single remaining sentry on the roof.

"Shift to target right-.", Crowell instructed unnecessarily but requiring the time to fix the range, "Range four-six-seven meters, elevation and windage same."

There was no need for the shooter to adjust his scope for so minor a change in distance- he could compensate for these negligible factors himself.

The second roof sentry's eyes were still turned up at the sky when König steadied the death dot on him. He was transfixed by the descending missiles and clearly not connected their implication with his circumstances. The sentry was also clearly unaware that his counterpart had been dispatched a good stone's throw away from him.

"Shoot."

The Remington kicked a second time and the second sentry went down into a motionless heap on Three's rooftop.

"Target down."

"Confirmed-. Target down. Stand by."

Through his riflescope, König saw the plunge of a missile dropping into the canyon of a street formed between "Three" and another building. The thin burn trail it left dissipated quickly but was replaced almost immediately by a rising billow of dense covering smoke.

At the same moment, a rapid succession of four flashes whose report mingled with other explosions marked the detonation of "Suicide Tinks" on the rooftop and within the structure- clearing anti-personnel mines.

The smoke that was intended to mask the movement of the Ranger assault force moving on "Three" would also rob König of his visibility in seconds as well. By instinct his right hand moved from the rifle grip to the scope to switch scope modes into infra-red. The milky green world vanished into a monochromatic, "hot white" representation of objects based on their radiant heat.

This was no distraction to the corporal who had trained and operated in all modes extensively.

"Target- acquire.", Crowell instructed from behind his spotter's scope, "Second floor, center. Single mark at the window."

König trained down and over smoothly, finding a white silhouette standing out clearly against a cold black and grey background. Another sniper team had primary responsibility for the floor as Crowell and König had for the rooftop- but in the absence of marks in their area, ROE gave them permission to take shots of opportunity.

This mark would be felled by whoever was quickest on the trigger, and bragging rights would belong to that shooter later at the after-action debrief.

"Target acquired-.", König said placing his dot in a field of white heat.

"Shoot."

" _Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali!"_

 _Glory be to the Goddess of War, here come the Gorkhas!_ -

The traditional Gurkha war cry carried from the throat of Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh, 3rd Platoon, Company C, 70th Gurkha Rifles, 1RGR as it echoed in his ears, carried by radio com-link from the mouths of his men. The Naib Subedar (a legacy rank equivalent to lieutenant) gunned the throttle of his VR-052 Cyclone and with a slight turn of the handles and a shift of his weight to one side and then the other led his platoon streaking past the advancing Gladiators that thundered forward like a technological approximation of war elephants.

On straight, open, paved road the Cyclone in motorcycle mode could reach speeds of 336 kmph or better if one took _liberties_ with the electrical governors as many a rider was inclined to do. On broken ground, or in the case of Brasilia's _shattered_ and debris-strewn streets, safe speed was significantly slower. While everything about the Cyclone system was geared toward delivering infantry with the maximum firepower available on a fast, highly mobile platform- there were still limitations.

The Cyclone had never been promised to be the "perfect" solution, only the _best_ solution to a need at the time.

Though the Cyclones could not presently sprint to the full speed that the powerful wheel hub-mounted electrical motors could drive them, all of the other navigational features built into the transformable motorcycle were available and critical for 3rd Platoon's lightning advance. Forward-scanning millimeter wave radar identified obstacles in the Cyclone's path and projected warning icons onto the interior of the rider's visor along with the assortment of other HUD-style projections. Navigational waypoints and required course change markers kept the rider on a

path to destination without having to refer to a map while InfoLink provided as great a wealth of battlespace tactical information as could be gathered by feeding sensor platforms and were selected by the rider for display.

"Final right ahead!", Singh called to the squad he would take a security position with. They followed in staggered trail and had the same navigational aides as their naib subedar, but Singh did not have the habit of allowing even the smallest opportunity for chance to act against him.

"Assume covering positions and eliminate threats upon identification!"

Singh eased pressure on the thumb-paddle throttle and let the grip of the all-terrain tires bleed off the bike's speed as he leaned heavily into the final turn. The streets ahead were already dense with smoke- the barrage of smoke-generating missiles having had enough time to do their work.

Without a doubt, if the malcontents in Abilene Sector did not know by now what buildings were to be the focus of the push, they would soon. Regardless, Both the Gurkhuas who would be holding the street-level and the Rangers who would be clearing buildings operated with the benefit of image intensification optics. By the time the smoke in the target areas of Abilene had cleared, the perimeter would be established and the assaults well under way or over.

Naib Subedar Singh thumbed at the Cyclone's mode toggle switch and leapt with the cycle into what had become known amongst riders as the "antelope hop".

To the rider of a conventional motorcycle, the act of releasing the handlebars and catapulting one's self free of the seat would have appeared suicidal- daredevilish at least- and they would have been correct. The Cyclone not being a conventional motorcycle negated this conventional thinking though.

Had Singh not assisted in his own ejection from the rider's seat, the cycle's seat would have thrown him free in the split second before the vehicle appeared to disintegrate beneath him. The level of trust in the machine required to execute a committed "antelope hop" was high, and universally agreed by all graduates of the Cyclone rider's school to be the most difficult portion of the training. As with almost every other aspect of operating the symbiotic mecha armor however, rider and machine had to cooperate to achieve the full potential of their union.

The cycle disintegrated beneath Singh, but not in a random or catastrophic fashion. Interlocks released and magnetic pads separated the cycle into its bi-functional components (BFCs) in a mechanical spray with a pulse of parallel fields. The BFCs were then, in a split second drawn to the attachment points of the rider's CVR-3 body armor by means of harmonized complementary magnetic fields. The CVR-3, reminiscent more of medieval European suits of plate armor than the lightweight, highly ambulatory armor worn by all RDF infantry became in that instant the base for the exoskeletal Battloid form of the transformable mecha.

When Singh's feet touched the pavement at just over 70Kmph, it was with less shock to his own joints and more stability than human reflexes or strength could have provided alone. Moreover, he and the others in his platoon were able to translate their forward momentum into a run and build upon it with the artificial enhancement of their power armor suits.

Impervious now to anything in the conventional arms sense short of an anti-tank rocket, the squad directly under Singh and his first sergeant, _Havildar_ Grogan, took holding positions at street corners or inside staved in doorways and windows. Seeing the world in infra-red, the squad scanned glassless windows and the edges of rooftops through artificial smoke for forms that would have to be automatically regarded as threats. There was always the disquieting possibility of an _accident_ or misidentification, but Brasilia had been devoid of pure civilians for some time.

Generally, few questions were raised about Zentraedi KIAs and only slightly more about humans in a well-established combat area.

Scanning the floors of the abandoned building across the street from his position with the visual enhancement of infra-red imaging, Singh engaged targeting portion of his VR-052 Cyclone's integrated combat system. Following the same principle as either the Veritech's or the Destroid's helmet acquisition and targeting system, the Cyclone pilot only had to place the aiming reticule on a threat to train all available weapons.

As Singh surveyed carefully the heat contrasts of the gutted building, his power armor automatically tracked with the muzzle of the Battloid's primary weapon, the PR-45 particle beam rifle. Intentional movements of the arm would override the "smart gun" tracking of the operator's head movements, but when fired in this mode the anti-light and medium mecha weapon was superbly accurate despite a size and weight that would have made it impractical for an infantryman to handle without the added strength of Cyclone power armor.

The street was quaking, with the approach of the Gladiators. Bits of rubble dancing on the fractured pavement as debris from crumbling structures shook free and began to rain down on the sidewalks and street.

Then, an urgent call from Rifleman Wallace in Singh's squad-.

"Two marks!- Third floor, left!"

Naib Subedar Singh only had to shift the direction of his gaze slightly to see the shapes in hot white that had not been there only moments before. They were humanoid in form, but too large at a glance to be human and a shade of radiant white that translated to the higher body temperature normal to Zentraedi.

Of more concern was the well-defined, dull grey object being carried by one of the featureless Zentraedi forms. Tubular and long, it did not require extensive familiarity with common battlefield weapons systems to recognize it as some form of rocket tube.

The Gurkhas of 3rd Platoon in a position to take action required no prompting to do so. Half a dozen PR-45s erupted into a converging blaze of rapid particle beam fire.

Singh lost clear view of the two targets as the infra red image dissolved into a bloom of heat as the steel and concrete of the building was mauled and reduced by the intense enfilade of energy weapons fire.

"Hold fire!", Singh ordered, deactivating his infra-red imager to take in the fall of flaming debris that was visible despite the smokescreen that was only beginning to dissipate, "I _think_ we got them-."

The air split with a sizzling thunderclap as two massive energy bolts entered and blew out the entire area of the structure that the Gurkhas had just finished saturating. Chunks of concrete and burning, twisted steel showered the area- several smaller bits even dinging off of Singh's own power armor.

A pair of Gladiators took form, their dual shoulder-mounted particle beam cannons that had finished the skirmish looking particularly sinister as they emerged from the diluting murk.

"I _know_ we got `em-."

Singh had to be amused at Major Colven's understatement- subtlety not being a common quality of mecha-armor types. As Destroid pilots were fond of saying though, there was no kill like _overkill._

"Lawman, Deputy Three-.", Colven reported as he and another Gladiator in his command took up position, "Perimeter established and uncontested."

The drainage sewer pipe around Whilite that had felt claustrophobic moments before began to close in as a pronounced tremble strengthened into a full shuddering of the world.

By this time electronic suppression was already in place blocking all but the UHF tactical and InfoLink frequencies that supported Operation Masterson.

The malcontents had to be aware that a fight was almost upon them though- there was no doubting this. There was no concealing the movement of Destroids in an urban combat zone, and previous employment left little doubt as to what their presence meant. Radio communications or not, word would spread within minutes to every nest of malcontents in the city that the Terran forces were on the move. The element of surprise had only moments to live- beyond that the winning of the day would depend on swiftness and violence of action.

Kilo for kilo, the Rangers knew that Zentraedi warriors were every bit as willing and good at the violence portion- so _swiftness_ was the card that would decide things.

Muffled, but still audible- the report of energy weapons firing in short, rapid bursts found its way down to poised assault team. The Gurkhas were reducing malcontent positions and assumedly drawing fire in return- but it was an exchange that did not cause great concern to the Rangers as the contest was stacked in the favor of the 70th Rifles with their Cyclones.

Whilite sucked in a full breath as Destroids passed heavily nearby and he found himself wondering just how well the engineers had reinforced the concrete tube he and his Rangers were covering in.

The relevance of the question was short-lived.

" _Go, go- GO!"_ , came with commanding power from Sgt. Byerly as Whilite felt a general shuffle forward around him.

A dozen more squatted paces forward and Whilite found himself scrambling with the rest of his Rangers up the ladder of the vertical access shaft. As he was able to make out part of the rim of the manhole around the form of the Ranger ahead of him, Whilite heard a series of muffled blasts- these were "Suicide Tinks" taking out emerging threats and targets of opportunity within Three.

It was typical of MOUT though that planned action should be joined so quickly and critically by the improvised. These were the moments in which an operation's success or failure hinged on the flexibility, skill, and initiative of the participants.

Whilite emerged from the manhole to the heavy report of a sapper's water impulse charge that was being used to open the wall of Three. The lieutenant drew his rifle from his leg bag on the run and had it to his shoulder before the pressure on his eardrums from the charge had completely subsided.

"Breech open, stairwell secure!", called the breeching team leader clearly to inform the charging assault teams that the "door" had been kicked open.

Even in the dense covering smoke and without the benefit of his helmet's infra-red optics, Lt Whilite knew exactly where every Ranger in his "stick" was positioned in their movement. The operation was only minutes old, but all of its critical movements and actions had already been practiced dozens of times.

Weeks of effort by probing recon teams and also by Tinkerbelle and Woodchuck operators had not been solely for taking pretty pictures for the benefit of intel officers and planners. Full scale models of the approaches to the target building and more critically of the interior floor layouts had been created in a number of dilapidated but securely held warehouses on the edge of Brasilia.

The "models" were actually only two-dimensional, using whatever materials were at hand to show the placement of rooms, doors, and whatever other significant features had to be represented for drilling purposes- but the important factor was that in terms of scale and distances the models were accurate.

Echo Company had in a sense raided this building dozens if not scores of times already, each platoon developing a firm knowledge of their areas of responsibility and a strong sense of the building overall.

Muscular memory had been developed and cemented so that Whilite was prepared to find himself at the southwest corner of Three after twenty-one measured paces. It was still reassuring to have the white hot infra-red shape of Byerly in front of him to verify that his muscular memory was true, but by now he could have navigated to the breeching point blindfolded

The malcontents were awake now and in a panicked mode of defense.

The unmistakable clatter of AK-47 assault riffles sliced through the covering smoke as defenders fired blindly from windows into the street. The _pop_ and _zing_ of rifle rounds along with clatter of chipping pavement and scattering debris gave each Ranger a rough idea of where the enemy was aiming and despite being well off of their path of advance, also gave the Rangers an incentive to reach the rallying point.

Firing inward from their perimeter holding positions, the Gurkhas were making a clear effort to suppress or neutralize the malcontent defensive positions- but the Zentraedi were not new enough at the ways of MOUT to be distracted. They knew well by hard-learned experience that they had more to fear immediately from the Ranger assault teams than from the fierce but fixed Gurkhas.

Whilite suddenly found himself at the corner of the building and the remarkably door-shaped wall breech the sappars had created with a water impulse charge. The sharp odor of expended plastic explosives was still strong in the air as Whilite followed Byerly through the hole and into the churning dust and smoke of the stairwell beyond the breeched wall.

The inside of the stairwell looked every bit as tattered as could be expected for the harsh treatment it had received in the past few minutes alone. Blast marks along with the lingering dust and smoke marked where Suicide Timks had neutralized malcontent anti-personnel mines that had been laid to make the wisely predicted entry point of the stairwell- a so-called "fatal funnel"- a sure kill box.

Corporal Van Dorn, the sapper who had initially opened the outer wall of Three to the Rangers, was in the final stages of setting a second water impulse charge against the heavy, steel fire door that separated the stairwell from the first level interior. The breeching device was not like a doughnut shape charge or a length of primer cord that used explosive force to cut through structural mass, but rather "pushed" an obstacle out of the way. In the case of the steel door or the area of outer wall before it, a water jacket was sandwiched between the small explosive charge and the object to be pushed. The water, incapable of being compressed, amplified manifold and directed the force of the explosives to achieve the desired effect.

The door would be gone in a second likely incapacitating or killing anything directly on the other side, but knowing what exactly lay on the other side was still beneficial to the assault team.

"Eyes Forward Four, Echo Three Actual- what's the view?", Whilite asked as he flattened himself against the stairwell wall with the rest of the squad. Impulse charges directed the force of their explosion predictably, but there was no such thing as being too safe.

"Three Actual, Eyes Four", replied the controller of a RAV-6 unit whose probes were hovering strategically beyond the fire door, "Southwest corridor clear- we're monitoring."

Whilite gave a nod and a specific hand gesture to Byerly who passed it on to Van Dorn.

" _Fire in the hole!"_

Rangers tucked their heads and braced a moment before they were hit with the concussive force of the small plastic explosive charge detonating.

Whilite could feel saline mist in his nostrils and taste it on his lips as the pressure of the explosion rolled off. He opened his eyes to find the squad's point fire team, PFCs Roth and Grady tossing "flash-bang" stun grenades through the now doorless portal in preparation.

A great flash, like the photostrobes of a legion of paparazzi going off at once, and a considerably more jarring concussive blast followed. In the stairwell, the effect of the two flash-bangs was uncomfortable enough- to any malcontent in the corridor or lurking just behind a door in a room off the main hall- the blast would have been disorienting at the least and more likely temporarily debilitating.

Roth and Grady charged through stairwell doorway into the building and were followed by successive clearing teams until Whilite too found himself on the move with his Bulldog shouldered and at the ready.

Things began to accelerate in pace as 3rd Platoon pushed into the main level. The other platoons of Echo Company began to either charge up the stairwell to penetrate the floors above, or down to clear and secure the basement. The sound of approaching Lakotas told all that 4th Platoon would be on the rooftop in seconds to "cap" the structure and join the assault from above.

Muffled by the floors and the walls that separated them, all of the on-station platoons of Echo Company could hear one another's weapons fire as the clearing portion of the operation built momentum.

Things had _always_ happened quickly in battle, PFC Allison Ekhart of the 703rd Remote Tactical Surveillance Regiment suspected without the benefit of actually participating in every battle up to this one.

It was a sound assumption though as battle was at best organized chaos, and more often heavier on the _chaos_ than the _organized_. And while integration of sophisticated C2, surveillance, and communications systems provided an operational commander with a wealth of information on which to base decisions and direction, it also multiplied by an order of magnitude the information elements being monitored at any given moment in a battle.

Where insufficient information used to be the greatest challenge to a commander, _information overload_ was now as great or a greater threat.

Technology provided infinite possibilities in terms of application, but it was still up to the Mk-1 human being to successfully interpret and apply it.

Collecting, interpreting, disseminating, and applying battlespace information was the primary purpose of the 703rd- and on occasion they were called upon to act on it as well.

In a room off the Ops Center, the detachment from the 703rd assigned to support 129th Infantry in Brasilia had crammed in as many of their portable command stations as the chamber would hold without splitting at the seams. Adding the body per control station and the supervisory NCOs made for uncomfortable duty accommodations, but the benefit of real action was that it focused the mind on the mission.

From this room and two others like it the 703rd detachment had probed, video-logged, and mapped the interiors of the four buildings that 4th Ranger was now in the process of assaulting.

Having provided the best intel possible up front, their duty was now to be "Eyes Forward", seeing into rooms and hallways before a friendly boot set foot into it, and identifying dangers before a friendly lives were exposed to it.

And under specific circumstances, they could be called upon to intervene proactively.

Ekhart had remote-driven four, scrappy RGV-3 Woodchucks into "Three" hours before the Rangers of the assault force had even assembled for their final briefings. Each wheeled probe, roughly the size of a large shoebox, was deceptively agile and capable in traversing broken ground or obstacles, and was even capable of climbing the steepest of stairs.

One by one, Ekhart had moved them into key observation positions in two rooms where they could monitor without fear of being found without an active search. The sparseness of sentry patrols inside of "Three" played a large part in Ekhart's ability to move her RGVs into place without detection. Like a child's game of hide and go-seek, much in the success of positioning the probe drones without detection relied upon a balance of skill, intuition, and old fashion luck.

A benefit not widely discussed though was that the game came with the same exhilarating rush that the operators had felt as a child trying their best not to be tagged "it", and with none of the dire personal consequences particular to the real world if they failed.

PFC Ekhart monitored two rooms from two camera angles each on her portable control station. Subdivided, the screen offered her an adequate image from each Woodchuck camera while allowing her to monitor the progress of the penetrating Ranger assault force relative to the position of each of her RGV-3s on a standard C2 display. Every Woodchuck and Tinkerbelle on station was carrying a "sapper" or "suicide" package, including Ekhart's- and under strict ROE she was authorized to use them appropriately. Certainly, having been through many operations with her four RGVs- Groucho, Harpo, Zeppo, and Frank (Ekhart could never remember the fourth Marx Brother's name-) she would regret the loss of any of them- but sentimental attachment aside, an RGV could be lost without a family's mourning.

Movement in Frank's video feed windows caught Ekhart's eye and was quickly corroborated by the view from Zeppo.

The wall of this particular interior room had been crudely hacked through by the malcontent Zentraedi occupants in order to allow them to move parallel to the main corridors without moving through them.

The Zentraedi had grasped that element of moving by cover it seemed.

Ironically, Ekhart had used the same wall breech to move the two Woodchucks now monitoring the room into position.

As the RGV operator watched the Rangers move northward along the main corridor on the C2 display, breeching and securing rooms as they went, two Zentraedi at first and then a third squeezed their considerable frames through the improvised portal. All armed heavily, one even carrying a squad medium machinegun- so there was little question of intent. Parallel to the axis of the Ranger's advance though, it was their ability to use that firepower that was the greatest cause of concern- neither a medium machinegun nor assault rifles being renown for respecting the protective qualities of drywall.

Unlike some situations Ekhart had experienced, ROE clearly granted her the ability to act. She had eyes on a clear threat to the assault, and none of the Rangers were in close enough proximity to be harmed by her actions.

"Echo Three, Eyes Six-. Three dittos, Room Eight Right. Moving to neutralize-."

With a paddle controller that would have been familiar to anyone who as a child had owned a remote-control toy car, Ekhart moved the closest Woodchuck in the room out from its concealed position steering directly for and rapidly to the three malcontents.

The RGV was spotted almost instantly which Ekhart could see from the expressions on all three Zentraedi faces as they turned to the bumping frame of the video image. A hint of confusion (it was likely none had ever seen an RGV) quickly gave way to action as the small machine's presence could not be easily interpreted as benign. The closest malcontent armed with an ancient SKS raised the weapon in the process of aiming.

Zeppo's camera rocked violently, but not so much as to not show the blast of its detonating brother and the airborne scatter of three Zentraedi to different points across the room.

" _Sorry, boys-._ ", Ekhart said with no backing emotion, and then added more sincerely, "Sorry, Frank."

Whilite felt the shock of a nearby explosion jolt through the concrete floor and in turn through his knees as a door down the already debris-strewn hallway was kicked outward into the passage in a shower of splinters.

"Echo Three, Eyes Six-. Targets down, no movement. Approach and verify with caution.", said the same female voice that had warned of the threat.

"Six, Three Actual- roger that.", Whilite replied as Byerly marked the room that had just been cleared with an iridescent green sticker on the doorframe.

The two Rangers who had cleared the room emerged and moved quickly up the corridor to the next room in the sequence where a sapper was loading two fresh "dust-buster" shells into his 10-gauge shotgun.

Staff Sergeant Byerly took a knee and Whilite squatted beside her just inside the doorway of a cleared room to check the progress of 3rd Platoon relative to that of the platoons sweeping the other floors. Similar to two dimensional movements, one had to pace advancement when in a fight in three dimensions. Though not as immediately perilous, one neither wanted to be too far ahead or too far behind the advance lest a salient be created and possibly exploited by the enemy.

A quick check on the small screen of Byerly's Personal Integrated Combat System (PICS) interface, mounted on the left forearm of her armor showed 3rd Platoon to be right in step. The advance and room-by-room capture of Three was going faster than had been anticipated and the relatively infrequent report of rifle fire told Whilite and his ranking NCO that the malcontents were collapsing with minimal resistance.

Most gratifying, there had not been a single call for a medic- yet.

It was odd given the ferocity of the average malcontent that they were being so easily and quickly driven back, but it had been known to happen.

"Suicide Tinks are doin' all the work for us today, El-Tee.", Byerly said as a deep boom from an upper floor marked the explosion of another remote vehicle. There was a brief exchange of some automatic weapons fire, some friendly and some not, and a shotgun blast before as audible evidence of a room skirmish.

Whilite shook his head, "I get nervous when things go too well-."

"Give it time.", Byerly said with a grin as regular infantry began to file through cautiously, entering each secured room to begin to catalogue any noteworthy elements or contents.

Byerly, sensing the possibility of things taking a quick turn for the worse warned the passing elements of the 129th, "EOD ain't been through yet, so don't go kicking shit around in there-!"

Another door on the hall was blown in by shotgun and a grenade tossed in on a short fuse. The detonation was followed by a pair of Rangers rushing the room and a brief clatter of weapons fire. There was a moment of relative silence along the hall before the next clearing team moved up to begin again at the next door.

In weeks past, _days_ before even- the Zentraedi had mounted spirited if not skilled defenses of buildings that would have led the assaulting force to believe that every room was a key position to the malcontents' defense of their evaporating territory in Brasilia. The rapid collapse of "Three" was becoming more disturbing to Whilite as he recalled many specific instances of this. Still- there was no indication that Three had been rigged as a single, large booby-trap- this not being the style of Zentraedi warriors in any case.

Byerly- tuning in again to her lieutenant's concerns- offered simply, "-Maybe they just don't want it today-."

An explosion out of sync with the tempo of the assault blew smoke and debris out of the open doorway of a room that had just been breeched. An eerie, heavy silence hung for a moment and was followed by the call that was dreaded no matter how many times it was heard.

" _Medic!- MEDIC!-. DOC! .."_

Corporal "Doc" Lancing rushed by the platoon leader and his staff sergeant drawing them into tow as she went. She had lingered with her gear just inside the initial breeching point in the stairwell, a position that would allow her the flexibility to render aide to any of Echo Company's platoons if called upon- but as fortunes of war were to have it, it was to a Ranger in 3rd Platoon to whom she would be attending.

As Whilite followed close behind, clutching his rifle as though it were a steel and carbon fiber security blanket, he noticed again that Lancing only had her .45 Glock 30 as means of self-defense. The rest of the bulk secured to her load-bearing gear was the tools and supplies of her medic's trade. In the field she could and would carry a rifle- the Zentraedi were notoriously indifferent to the primarily non-combatant role of medics- but in assault operations she was too valuable as a medic to assign to a clearing team.

Lancing ducked through the open doorway from which a cloud of dust was still settling. Followed a moment later by Whilite and Byerly whose inclination was first to sweep the room through the sights of their rifles to verify no other living threats, Lancing was already at work- seemingly oblivious to the possibility of danger to herself.

A single Zentraedi male lay face-down in a pool of spreading bluish-green blood, grapefruit –size exit wounds in his back showing where the Rangers' SCAP rounds had come out. A remarkably pristine H&K SMG (just the sort of item being stolen by Zentraedi raids these days) lay by the malcontent's lifeless hand- the trigger guard sawed away as was common with human weapons found on Zentraedi that allowed larger fingers to access the trigger.

Byerly gave the body a firm nudge with the toe of her boot. When there was no sign of life, she nodded the "all clear" to Whilite and they rejoined Lancing.

The medic had found her patient under the first aid care of PFC Franco. PFC Olsen, a Ranger of medium build and stature lay in the center of the room two meters from a clear blast point amid debris on the floor. The load-bearing gear over his body armor, and the outer Chameleon layers of the armor itself were shredded into irregular strands and patches from the throw of shrapnel. Red blood had stained the upper portions of the Ranger's body armor and had begun to accumulate on the floor about his head.

Similarly torn and stained also from Olsen's blood, Franco knelt over the wounded man's slowly writhing body holding a thick gauze compress whose absorbency had reached its limit to the left side of Olsen's face.

Whilite recognized immediately that both the wounded man and the Ranger attending him were both in various degrees of shock. The lieutenant surprised himself though by feeling a flare of irritation at Franco.

It was not for a perceived act of carelessness that allowed his teammate to be wounded, or for an equally unfair notion that he had escaped injury where Olsen had not. It was the sense that Franco was in Lancing's way now.

Oddly, it was the thought that Olsen might come out of shock and begin to wail before Lancing could get a syrette of morphine into him that Whilite found burning just under his skin. Nothing set the already frayed nerves of a bystander on edge like the agonized cries of a warrior trained and expected to be indestructible.

Whilite quickly regained his scruples though, and neither voiced nor showed any signs of his selfish aggravation.

Lancing was in next to Franco and moving the novice's hands gingerly away to access the patient.

"-Here-. Let me see-.", Lancing instructed calmly but firmly.

Byerly was more direct in intervening. She hauled Franco away and to his feet by his load-bearing harness. To give the stunned Ranger something to help focus him back on the fight and not the wounded man, Byerly quickly found and thrust the private's weapon back into his hands.

Olsen groaned loudly- pain grappling with shock for dominance of the senses.

While Whilite again found himself hoping that a good dose of morphine was in the near future, Lancing appeared oblivious to all but the task at hand. She was as much in her element and undistracted as any dedicated professional at work.

A medical hand scanner came out of the medic's hip pouch and was quickly plugged into the wounded Ranger's body armor to draw readings from his bio-monitors. The data was displayed on the small screen and simultaneously streamed back to a supporting field hospital where the patient would be ambulanced.

Lancing made methodical passes over the wounded portion of the Ranger's face with the scanner's small sensor paddle getting a detailed MRI iimage of the underlying tissue and bone. Not quite up to the standards that would have satisfied "Bones" McCoy, the scanner did allow the medic to make a quicker, more detailed assessment of a casualty and have it in the hands of the trauma surgeons when they received him.

Byerly, sensing that Franco was on the backside of his brush with shock, nudged the private and asked directly, "What happened?"

Franco shook his head, "We put that big bastard down and were just clearing the room when-. I think someone just rigged a grenade under some trash-. Olsen might have tripped it, or maybe the ditto had the pin pulled and it rolled away as he went down-."

Byerly moved her radio mike in front of her mouth and said clearly, "Echo Three Bravo to all units, be advised we've had a booby trap detonation. All cleared rooms are to be checked by EOD _before_ turning them over to battlefield intel for survey and inventory-. Out."

The staff sergeant moved Franco toward the door, "C'mon, you're on the bench for five. Let's go-."

Lancing's bloodied hand snapped out at the sergeant, waving a finger, "Set him down over there, Sarge- I want to check him quick for nerve trauma before you walk him to the rear."

Byerly nodded as she redirected Franco to the nearest wall where the floor space was clear and sat him down, "You're the boss, Doc-."

In all things pertaining to medical situations, Lancing _was_ the boss- over Byerly, and even Whilite within limits.

Whilite was standing over the medic, waiting for direction also. Med-evac choppers were standing by in orbit literally a minute's flight away and could have Olsen on his way to a proper hospital in under five if Lancing made that call.

As Byerly had said, she was the boss in this situation.

"What's the word, Doc?", Whilite asked, hovering and beginning to feel helpless as the adrenaline left his system.

"Shock and multiple facial lacerations for sure.", Lancing said, sounding distant as she continued her examination and initial treatment, "Looks like his armor stopped the shrapnel to the body, and it don't look like anything penetrated his skull from what I can see-. All tissue damage. We're going to want to have him- _both of them_ \- checked for nerve trauma and TBI. Let me get Olsen stable and we can evac them both."

"Roger that.", Whilite said, feeling the weight come off his chest as he tapped the mike on his helmet, "Med One, Echo Three Actual- I need litter bearers for two back to the CCP for med-evac."

"Copy that Three Actual- stretchers for two coming up."

"-And have an engineer walk them up-.", Whilite added with a look from Byerly, "Damn place is booby-trapped like _Spy vs. Spy_ -."

"Copy that Three Actual."

PFC Franco was trying to get to his feet again by this point, the now muffled and waning sound of grenade and automatic weapons' fire kindling the drive in him to complete the mission.

Byerly kept him seated if not still, "Stay put-. You're goin' for a ride to have a check-up from the neck up."

Franco tried to get to his feet once again, using his rifle to transfer his weight to his feet, "Hell, Sarge- I _can_ walk-."

"Not if Doc says you can't-.", Byerly replied easily pushing him back down onto the floor, "Now stay put, or _I'll_ make it so you _can't_ walk."

Before the moment could turn for the worse for Franco, two pairs of litter bearers with an engineer and a medic leading the way entered the room.

Lancing was finishing the application of first aid and bandages to Olsen as his transport arrived to take him to the casualty collection point for evacuation. Lancing and the other medic traded words related to their trade as the two Rangers were moved onto stretchers and as quickly as the litter bearers had appeared, they were gone with the wounded.

Whilite was suddenly aware of two things- the first being that he was starting to get the post-adrenal jitters. The second was that chaotic sounds of battle he had grown accustomed to in the past month as being part of building assaults were dying out quickly.

"I hate it when it's quiet-."

Byerly, who had clearly been thinking along the same lines was able to immediately enter the conversation, "I feel you, El-Tee-. Like I said, dittos must not want it today."

"I hate _that_ worse.", Whilite said and not without justification. Zentraedi were not known to back down from a fight without a good cause, and more often than not "backing down" still involved a stiffer resistance than what Echo Company was encountering in Three.

"Count ourselves lucky, I guess-.", suggested the sergeant, "Who knows why dittos do anything."

"Echo Three Charlie to Echo Three Actual. First level secure. Eight hostiles dead, two wounded. We're bringing up EOD and medics now. Over."

"Copy that, Three Charlie-.", Whilite replied, "Hand the floor over to EOD and intel and rally back at the base of the stairwell. We'll redeploy from there. Over."

"Roger that, will be there in two."

"Well, that's _fourteen_ by my count on this floor-.", Byerly said trying not to sound as concerned as her expression said she was.

"Intel said, expect what-?", Whilite asked looking at the dead Zentraedi in the room that he and Byerly still occupied, "A dozen times three- at least?"

"Three to four.", Byerly affirmed, "Maybe they're hiding under desks or something?"

"Well, they're sure as hell not here fighting for the place.", Whilite grumbled.

"-Uh, Lawman- Echo One Actual- garage level sweep nearly complete-. ", said Lieutenant Forbes of Echo Company's 1st Platoon over the tac-com frequency, "We're going to need some Tinkerbelles and Woodchucks down here-. We seem to have a tunnel originating in a utility space and heading roughly northwest-."

"-Better send EOD too-. I don't think we want to send people in therewith the chance of booby-traps. Over."

His interest captured, Whilite flipped open the LCD panel of the PICS on his forearm and accessed the video monitoring application through InfoLink.

He quickly found several active feeds available from 1st Platoon and began to toggle between the window options. Heads were on swivels making the tilt and pan of the helmet cameras dizzying. The battle with motion sickness not withstanding, Whilite found the function of the video feeds to carry through.

In pieces he saw what could have been the utility room of any office building's basement with its pumps, air handlers, and pipes shown through night vision green. Recurring views of a cinderblock wall showed where a hole had been crudely hacked out to allow the digging of an equally amateur tunnel.

Views from other helmet cams showed a distinct path of dirt and small stones where the earth had been carted away.

Camera views strayed from the tunnel and its entrance to nearby stacks of storage cases that at a glance clearly were not among the "regular" items one would find in a civilian building's basement. Long, rectangular rifle cases sat arranged neatly beside equally distinctive ammunition cases that in their number probably accounted for thousands, if not _tens_ of thousands of rounds for the same weapons.

Other crates and boxes were less immediately identifiable, but being military-type construction and with the nature of the cache established, Whilite was comfortable with guessing at the material category of the contents.

Captain Nguyen's voice, speaking from the JOC where he had been monitoring his company's movements, said clearly, "Echo One Actual, Lawman-. Secure and hold that area-. Touch nothing, there may be traps. We'll have a remote recon unit and EOD to you shortly. Do you copy? Out."

"Copy that, Lawman- will do.", Forbes said, "I think if it was booby-trapped though, we'd already be orbiting Mars. Over."

"All the same, One Actual- move your people back and keep them back until EOD can clear the area. Echo Two, Three, and Four- secure your AoRs and stand by to rally on One. Over."

"Two, roger.."

"Three, roger.", Whilite said in turn.

"Four, roger."

Byerly shook her head and took to the gruesome task remaining for the slain Zentraedi at her feet. Kneeling beside the corpse that was now filling the room with the thick smells of Zentraedi body odor- a sharp, coppery, unwashed armpit scent-, blood, and opened digestive tract, Byerly used both hands and all her strength to turn him over.

 _Technically_ speaking- "the book" dictated that enemy casualties were to be checked for any signs of life before being searched for battlefield intel. In this case, Byerly reasoned that the toe-nudge she had given the body a minute earlier to be sufficient.

Firing the same 8mm x 55mm shaped-charge armor piercing (SCAP) caseless round as the Terminator rifle, the work done on the malcontent by Franco and Olsen's Bulldogs had left little possibility of finding signs of life.

"Fuck, El-Tee-.", Byerly muttered with a grunt as the death smells grew overpowering even in her jaded nostrils, "-If today hasn't taken a turn for the _bizarre._ "

Whilite stooped over and picked up the submachinegun, extracting the clip and clearing the chambered round. The bullet tumbled free to the floor and rolled just out of Whilite's reach.

He _should_ have made the effort to retrieve it; "the book" stating that the enemy should be deprived of every material resource- even a single bullet. Whilite shook his head at the notion in the present situation. From what he had seen through 1st Platoon's helmet cams, a single bullet in the malcontents' possession was not going to be a determining factor in any fight.

Whilite's thoughts returned to the fight- or the lack thereof.

Having seen by video link what Forbes' 1st Platoon had seen in the basement set the disquieting thoughts spinning in Whilite's head.

Why hadn't there been more of a fight? His Rangers had assaulted Three well-armed, but not carrying the ammunition for a drawn-out fight, whereas the malcontents with just a little more forethought and planning could have defended for weeks against a division.

The first thought about the glimpse of weapons and ammunition he had seen cached led Whilite to his second thought. It was more of an unsubstantiated impression, but one that something in Forbes' voice seemed to support in its unease.

Whilite could not prove it of course, but there was something about the stockpile of weapons that just told him that there had been _more_ at some point. Whether it had been days, hours, or minutes before Forbes had stumbled across the stash- Whilite was sure that at some point the quantity had been greater.

How many cases of rifles or boxes of ammunition could be moved through the tunnel that had been discovered in a panic? How much could be moved with an organized effort?

And who was waiting to receive on the other end?

"I feel you on that-.", Whilite agreed, standing again and kicking the ejected bullet across the room and into the oblivion of shadows and debris.

"I liked the old arrangement better where they took a position, we assaulted it, and they died stubbornly defending it. –What was wrong with that?"

"These must be those new _progressive_ types-.", Byerly reasoned patting down the crudely made clothing of the dead Zentraedi.

A testimony to the skill Zentraedi possessed in adaptation and improvisation was the fact that in the absence of ready supplies of clothing to be had in their size, a good many had learned to make their own. Never of a quality that could be mistaken for tailored or mass-produced garments, the clothing was often of an adequately functional and durable sort. It tended more toward the more traditional Zentraedi uniform of tunic and trousers than more terrestrial garb- but it covered the wearer and protected him or her from the environment and the elements.

"-Matches, a pack of cigarettes, and three chocolate bar wrappers. Graveyard watch stuff-.", Byerly reported as she finished the meager inventory of the warrior's possessions.

"No copy of the team playbook?", Whilite asked hopefully. It was a foolish optimism. The flow of intel collected from malcontent KIAs had been reduced to a drip recently.

Byerly scoffed as she pulled the malcontent's tunic-front up over his face to mark him for the intel units as having been checked, "-And burn up a month's good luck in one shot? I don't think so."

"Worth asking anyway-."

The covering smokescreen that had been so dense at the time of Gator Company's arrival at the operational perimeter had thinned to little more than a light fog, leaving the Gladiators standing defensive positions in the open street completely exposed.

Major Colven knew that the sight to the enemy was as much a part of Gator Company's role in Masterson as any trigger-pulling they may have been called upon to perform. The irony of the towering Gladiators intimidating Zentraedi who were in their true form, giants, was not lost on Colven either. The old adage of the shoe being on the other foot came to mind.

By all accounts, Colven should have been judging the effectiveness of the defensive perimeter an overwhelming success. The dual blast he'd fired from his Destroid's twin PBC-7 cannons in support of the Gurkhas on his approach to his present position had also been the _last_ shots he had fired.

Oddly, as it pertained to his portion of the perimeter- they had been the last shots fired altogether.

During the course of the assault on Three- the building that Colven's squad and Naib Subedar Singh's platoon were primarily responsible for defending from outside threats- not a single malcontent had made an effort to challenge the perimeter. Not a single shot had been fired, even at the Lakotas that had been exposed and vulnerable as they delivered from a stationary hover a platoon of Rangers by fast-rope onto Three's rooftop.

The malcontents had simply not come out to play, and while this was a welcome reaction in Colven's mind- it was highly irregular to the point of not being trusted.

Zentraedi _never_ gave up without a fight-even if it was a futile one.

"Deputy Units, Eyes Top.", came the call from the voice of the UCAV controllers, "Be advised that we're seeing vehicle and foot movement _away_ \- repeat, _outbound_ – from operational bull's eye center. Movement seems concentrated between bull's eye three-zero-zero through zero-four-five roughly two blocks outside of Deputy perimeter-. –Mean path of advance is roughly north."

Colven's attention was captured by the words that were equal parts unbelievable and unexplainable. Toggling up an image from an orbiting UCAV high above the operational sector, the major found himself looking upon a site that had been accurately reported by the JOC.

There was not just a Zentraedi presence on the streets in an arc northwest to northeast over Abilene, but a veritable, Biblical _flood_ of aliens on foot, and most shockingly- moving _away_ from the fight.

"All Deputy Units, Lawman-. Hold your positions and observe ROE. Over."

Baffled by the sight presented by several UCAV feeds, Colven almost did not register the clear and simple instructions from the JOC. He was fixated on the images, now not only of Zentraedi ( _presumably_ malcontents, but not officially classified as such until they made threat or fired on a "friendly") on foot, but of Zentraedi on foot pulling in teams improvised carts made of vehicle chassis and whatever else could be fitted with wheels and bear a load.

Vehicles, actual _operable_ civilian vehicles ranging in size from small pick-ups to medium-size pack vans that had not been seen on the streets of Brasilia in months emerged randomly and in small numbers from underground parking garages and joined the exodus north.

Most shocking was the sheer number of Zentraedi- easily thousands overall Colven guessed and far more than intelligence officers had predicted to be in so small an area. They were there though- the Destroid driver could see them by his own Gladiators video optics.

Literally, they were all around Abilene and seemed intent on getting as far away from the sector as possible, as quickly as possible.

Lawman had been right to re-assert the rule of ROE to the forces in the operational sector, Colven realized as his own observation of portions of the fleeing mass revealed almost all to be visibly armed. ROE stated that outside of the perimeter Zentraedi were only to be engaged if making challenge to or attacking the perimeter. These Zentraedi were not, and to provoke them was at a glimpse risking to arouse the anger of a force of great numerical superiority.

Thoughts of The Alamo came to Colven's mind.

When Colven heard the instant response of Subedar Sumir Khan , the company CO to the Gurkhas holding the same sector as Colven's unit, he was not surprised.

"Lawman, Deputy Charlie Actual- request permission to exit the perimeter to secure prisoners for questioning-."

A pause from the JOC.

"Stand by Deputy Charlie Actual-."

Subedar Khan (wearing the same major's oak leaves as Colven) was no doubt seeing the same disjointed withdrawal of Zentraedi from the sector as Colven and was confident that a small number of his Gurkhas could quietly capture a malcontent and _persuade_ information from him. This was technically within the bounds of ROE, but not an undertaking to be made without clearing it with the JOC.

"Deputy Charlie Actual, Lawman. That's a _negative_ on your request. Hold your position. Over."

Colven could feel Khan's disappointment but understood Lawman's decision. A failed snatch and grab at this moment could find the Gurkhas easily cut off and surrounded, necessitating rescue. One could see how that could easily explode into just the kind of confrontation that the JOC was looking to avoid by it's adherence to ROE order.

The Control Zone was already a powder magazine prone to sparks. To provoke a fight was to toss a Molotov cocktail.

" _Damn_ if we didn't just avoid a Little Big Horn, Captain."

Nguyen heard his senior NCO, Sergeant Major MacDonald's words and though in complete agreement with them made no attempt to respond to them. They said everything perfectly and concisely.

Additionally, Nguyen was absorbed in the increasing number of video feeds from various friendly sources that all showed variations of the same scene: fleeing Zentraedi carrying all they could bear, and headed for the not-so-distant northern city limits of Brasilia.

Exiting Brasilia to the north did not mean immediately vanishing into wilderness- far from it. It was many kilometers before open country gave way to regular cover, and hundreds of kilometers before a Zentraedi presently fleeing Brasilia would enter anything resembling rain forest. But open country allowed even a group the size of that now fleeing to evaporate into smaller parties that were harder to monitor and even more difficult to influence with direct action.

"Look at all they're carrying, Mac.", Nguyen said, deep in thought with the struggle to interpret what he was seeing, "They have to be carrying eighty to ninety kilos per ditto, yes?"

MacDonald understood the source of Nguyen's estimation, seeing that bar none the departing Zentraedi carried bundles and knapsacks that would have staggered even the most robust human. They were moving away quickly, but not at the expense of _taking_ with them.

"Gotta be, sir.", MacDonald replied, "-And you can bet they're not just taking the good china with them."

Nguyen nodded in understanding, even if he did not understand the whole of what he was seeing.

"They're not _retreating_ from the fight, Mac- they're _choosing_ to fight somewhere else-. I feel field ops in our future."

"Suits me fine, sir.", MacDonald said as he worked his fingers over his jaw thoughtfully, "We've been cooped up in the city too long anyway."

The steady murmur of orders being passed and information being exchanged between the officers and staff of the JOC had risen to a modest din without becoming unruly. The only voice that rose at regular intervals to be heard over the others was Brigadier General Wendel's, and the rise and fall of his volume was as much for effect as effectiveness as he spoke by secure radio telephone to the commander of the ASC garrison in his HQ several kilometers away.

Captain Nguyen had had few interactions with the commanding officer of the 129th Infantry that were more than a minute's duration. With all of 4th Ranger Regiment in Brasilia, there just was no need for a company commander to interact frequently with the on-scene commander. To his credit though, Wendel did make a clear effort to have "face time" with the officers and even the enlisted under him which was not true of all general officers.

Nguyen did spend a good deal of his time in the JOC, where to the best of his knowledge Wendel spent _all_ of his. Nguyen had found himself to be one who could quickly draw accurate impressions of those around him, and in being in proximity to the general for a number of weeks now he felt he had a reasonable handle on the officer.

General Wendel, Nguyen had learned, was a Pennsylvania man and the first to not follow a family tradition of farming. Nguyen, having a good number of relatives in farming in Vietnam could see how Wendel could have come easily from that tradition. Tall and slender as a stalk of corn, the general nonetheless had an aura of physicality about him that only came from being familiar with manual labor. He also had the grim, uncomplaining resolve of a man whose fortunes depended on the whims of nature. Nothing caused a panic in this man, or much of a reaction at all. The unexpected was greeted with stoicism and resolve to sort it all out in the best way it could be done.

This was not to say that Wendel did not have a fiery side- it came with the stars and billet. The fire surfaced when Wendel felt that his tight-lipped sense of the urgent was not shared by those around him or under his command.

The Army of the Southern Cross, Brasilia Garrison commander was feeling the flame now.

Captain Nguyen and Sergeant Major MacDonald were busy with the tasks of shifting Echo Company's gears from assaulting "Three" to securing and holding it, but not so much so that they could not keep track of Wendel's half of a heated conversation only meters away.

Gesturing to the holographic map table and the multiple command displays that the ASC Commander could not see, Wendel carried on passionately as though the ASC general was beside him and taking in the same tactical view.

"-I _understand_ that, General Morales-", Brigadier General Wendel stated with a calm yet insistent tone that held in it just a hint of simmer, "-Yes. –Yes I understand that your forces and your assistance was not initially requested for this operation, however circumstances have changed and that effects us _both_."

Nguyen glanced sideways to find MacDonald shaking his head. One did not have to be around flag officers long to recognize an argument that was predominantly political- or in this case a matter of rubbing the other guy's face in the bull-patty.

Neither Nguyen nor MacDonald spent a lot of their time around generals, but they did have a lot of time in the Army and found the half of the conversation they were hearing to be familiar.

Wendel's tone was even still, but his complexion continued to darken past red to purple as he made his bid for the unobligated officer's support.

"This _isn't_ a containment issue, sir. The force whose movement we're monitoring appeared _outside_ of my operational perimeter. We're in no tactical position to mount any kind of pursuit in force without opening the entire controlled portion of the city up to malcontent incursion or even reoccupation."

"-No. –No there has been no exchange of fire at this time, but there's also no reason why they can't continue to march out of the city to the north and then just make a hook to hit either or both of us in the asses!"

"-No, I'm not saying that, but I am saying that not taking the minimal precaution of establishing a defensive line between our rear areas and the dittos' possible direction of approach could result in the loss of ground that your troops _and_ mine have shed a lot of blood to gain-."

Sensing that Wendel might not be successful in securing Morales' support, Nguyen suddenly felt the distance between himself and Echo Company more acutely. There was a great temptation to try to slip away quietly and move to the front with his unit where he should have been anyway by his estimation, but Nguyen found that the force of discipline was a powerful one. Moments of unexpected tactical transition were dangerous enough without junior officers breaking the chain of command to obey their own intuition.

Then, what might have been argued to be "the inevitable" happened.

Nguyen didn't see the first shot fired on the JOC's large monitors, nor was it likely that anyone in the room did. It was almost as improbable that anyone would ever pin down who had fired and why as it was unimportant.

A shot had been fired in one direction and was quickly replied from the other, and in seconds it became an all-out exchange of fire.

" _Shots fired!_ ", someone in the JOC called out though by that time the entire staff knew, "All perimeter guard units are engaging!"

The phone drifted away from General Wendel's mouth while his lips formed a stream of voiceless obscenities. When the handset returned to its place at his ear, his tone was still calm, but carried an edge of scorn.

"General, I have to report to you now that we have an escalating firefight along our perimeter front. You would be _well advised_ to activate any quick response units that you have and move them into defensive positions around our area of control to counter possible attack."

Wendel's face twisted in disgust as comments unheard by the staff around him were drilled into his ear by his ASC counterpart whose CP had potentially become part of the battlefront.

"-Yes, we _will_ have more words about this later, but now we should make sure we're doing it in either your headquarters or mine and not on the retreat. –Very good, I'll have the tactical data feeds enabled and keep this line open for coordination."

Wendel waited for the line to close on the other end before slamming the handset emphatically into the cradle.

" _Cocksucker!-_ ", the CO snarled, venting the indignity of the argument he had just had before returning his attention to conduct of his forces.

"Well", the CO growled, his face lightening several shades of purple, "the ASC is on board now, _praise be to God_ …. Coms, open up all firewalls for the established tactical data flow. Let's not give them an excuse for screwing up by withholding resources."

Officers and staff from the communications detachment were already at work and beginning to oversee the passing of data to the ASC CP before Wendel had finished speaking.

"Ops-", Wendel continued, "Start moving units into position along approaches for possible counterattack-. Wake _everybody_ up. If they've got two hands, I want them holding a weapon and manning a position. –And get the airfield into action! I want top cover from anything that can carry a gun or a rocket pod. I wanna hear choppers sawing air in two minutes!"

The activity level in the JOC had gone in seconds from fast-paced to an orchestrated frenzy as orders went out across the areas of command. The loudspeakers across post began to wail the general alarm, a sound still audible over the din of voices inside the JOC.

" _This_ is what they mean by _no plan surviving first contact-._ ", Sergeant Major MacDonald thought aloud as he switched his gaze between four live video feeds of the firefights going on all around the Abilene perimeter.

Whether the images were coming from Destroids at street level or the orbiting UCAVs, they just showed different angles of the same event. Tracers and energy rounds zipped back and forth between the Gurkha and Gladiator positions and the retreating malcontent lines. At times, the volume of fire was so intense that it seemed unbelievable that the malcontents were _withdrawing_ and not on the advance- but a trail of carnage in dead and wounded stretching back in their wake and lengthening confirmed it.

"Mac", Nguyen said quite professionally, "have our people hunker down and brace up for pushback- the dittos can change their minds about giving up the fight. –And have the sappers set charges to collapse that tunnel into the basement- in case. Tunnels work both ways-."

"Roger that, sir.", MacDonald complied.

Someone- _someone_ who probably had never been in combat- had defined and named a condition called _mecha malaise_ during the late developmental stages of the Gen-1 Destroids.

As the theory went, drivers cozied up inside of tons of machine and armor were prone to lose "the edge" to their situational awareness despite the latest in video, audio, and sensory systems that the Gen-1s were being equipped with because the machine-to-pilot input still possessed the synthetic qualities of well-rendered simulation. In short, the concern was that the "fear" was being filtered out of combat.

Further speculation warned of a so-called "Achilles Syndrome"- in which drivers afflicted with mecha malaise might unduly endanger themselves by operating under an assumption of invincibility provided by their machines-. One theoretical psychological condition feeding into another.

By this time, the Neuro-Pilot system was in advanced development and was the chosen interface to allow drivers control of their machines. Probably the same "experts" who had concocted "mecha malaise" and "Achilles Syndrome" had come up with the solution to both using Neuro-Pilot: make the information flow both ways.

Neuro-Pilot already used strategically placed sensor pads in the driver's suit to intercept nerve impulses that were translated into the Destroid's movements and fed back sensations that allowed the pilot to feel balance and the sensations of movement for their machine. A modest delay in schedule and a great deal of R&D money allowed the engineers to teach Neuro-Pilot how to send _other_ nerve impulses back.

Thanks to all of this courtesy and forethought by those who would never operate a Destroid in combat, every driver since had experienced discomfort with every round received by his or her machine.

Minor, insignificant impacts by conventional small arms and lasers felt like mosquito bites, Major Colven had discovered. Heavier kinetic or energy rounds felt more like a malicious pinch.

Colven had reasoned that the engineers must have been mostly men because the groin was spared "sensory translation", foregoing the possibility of a "virtual" kick in the balls.

All of these features built into the Destroids were well-intentioned, but unnecessary in Colven's mind. He _had_ been in combat before and knew that no level of technology could lead to either "mecha malaise" or "Achilles Syndrome" so long as the pilot was riding the machine to battle.

Fear 1.0 was still state-of-the-art in armor-penetration.

When the malcontent flight from Brasilia had begun, Subedar Khan of the Gurkhas' Company C had been quick to request permission to pursue. The JOC had ordered the Gurkhas- _all_ of the units on the perimeter- to do no more than exit the lines.

The wisdom of those orders wa now self-evident.

The fight having begun though, neither Colven nor the Gurkhas had seen any reason not to fight from the very _edge_ of the perimeter.

That had been two minutes ago- and things had changed in that small span of time.

Perimeter defense was mostly the clear threat of violence to deter the enemy substantiated by the ability to make good on the threat. This was why Gurkhas in Cyclone power armor held the key positions on the streets and why the Gladiators were on the scene- should the malcontents not correctly read the Gurkhas' intent.

If perimeter defense escalated from deterrence to violence, as it had been known to do, it was normally small unit action in intense but brief skirmishes. The balance of firepower was too greatly skewed for any but the insane or suicidally desperate among the malcontents to seek any other kind of confrontation.

What was _not_ supposed to happen-. What _never_ happened was that the malcontents would put all of the ferocity of a frontal assault into a full retreat.

That was until now.

As the first tracer had come his way, Major Colven had been willing- _thrilled_ even- to return fire. His Gladiator's sensors and combat computer tracked every round fired at Colven and conveniently identified the attack's point of origin to allow the driver the chance to reply.

It was not a reply in kind however as the Gladiator mounted weapons designed for maximum effect against other mecha. The effect of any of these systems on targets of flesh and blood would have been understated by calling it _excessive_ or _gruesome._

To a lesser degree but not significantly less, this was also true of the Cyclones operated by the Gurkhas.

What had changed in the first thirty seconds of the exchange between the conventionally armed malcontents and the defenders of the Abilene perimeter was that the feeling of the melee had turned from one of being a fight to being murder.

The PR-45 particle beam rifles fired by the Cyclone-riding Gurkhas had been designed to pierce the biomechanical exoskeletons of Invid. A single energy bolt could chew through a line of twenty unarmored bodies being as lethat and effective against the last as the first.

-And there had been enough Zentraedi in the streets when the shooting had started to prove this.

Major Colven had quickly switched from using the GU-11 gun pod his Gladiator carried, loaded with alternating high-explosive fragmentation and high-explosive incendiary rounds to the PBC-7 particle beam cannons mounted in either of the Gladiator's shoulders. The particle beam cannons could be fired into the pavement of the street scattering only the spall that was created.

Colven had watched through high-resolution optics at a range of under 100 meters as the first 55mm HEF and HEI rounds from his gun pod had raked the retreating malcontent rear guard at a cyclic rate of ten per second. Bodies had either dissolved or been set ablaze depending on their proximity to either type of contact-detonating round.

Some had done both.

By a minute into the "fight", the sense of murder had become the fact of wholesale slaughter and at that point Colven had felt a reluctance in the Gurkhas to squeeze the trigger.

Damn if Colven hadn't quietly been urging the malcontents to just fling down their weapons and flee as fast as their feet would carry them.

Damn if the malcontents didn't continue to martyr themselves in successive receding waves by stubbornly continue to fire in a futile display of defiance.

As the fight reached the ripe age of 120 seconds, Colven was certain he had legitimate sins to confess before the day that he met his Maker.

The street was no longer a path for the movement of traffic but a carpet of shredded flesh and mangled bodies laying in clusters and heaps and joined to one another by spreading pools of blue-green.

" _Weapons hold!"_

Major Colven barely recognized the words as his own, neither by voice or by belief that he would utter them in the presence of the enemy.

" _Hold your fire Goddamnit!"_

Perimeter "defense" fire dropped away to nothing instantly, and the malcontent's fire subsided almost as fast.

An unspoken agreement had been reached that this mode of fighting was done for the day.

Watching the Zentraedi slip away- quickly now without the burden of making a fighting retreat- Colven knew that he would have to fight these very same Zentraedi again. Certain as that was though, he would _not_ be party to massacring a grossly outmatched adversary.

War after all did have to have some rules.

Didn't it?

 **Edwards Air Force Base, California**

Hospitals.

Hospitals to Lt Col Nigel Winters' way of thinking were an exercise in selective vision and acknowledgment. This was particularly true of military hospitals, and these even more so during times of escalated conflict.

Granted, there were elements of a hospital that one was expected to recognize and comment favorably on while passing through. One was to acknowledge the professionalism of the staff in attending to the infirm and wounded; their meticulous eye for detail in doing so, and how diligently they saw to their patients.

One was expected to recognize that wounds that even fifty years before would have been considered almost certainly fatal were now treated and overcome with great regularity.

These were the things one was _supposed_ to see and acknowledge.

Then there were the elements of a military hospital that one was to _overlook._

There were the recovery wards of six to twelve beds apiece, separated by walls of drawn curtains that were too thin to muffle the groans of the recovering as the agonies of wounds emerged from under the haze of pain-killers.

There was the stealthy and guilty movement of orderlies shuttling a still and shrouded form quickly from the ICU and out of the sight of patients and staff when medical science did not prevail.

There was the thin, pleasant veil of a practiced smile and comforting eyes worn by doctors, nurses, and orderlies alike as they moved through the halls and wards- veils that fell away at the first sound of approaching helicopters that might be ferrying more wounded to their care.

There were the rehabilitation and therapy wings where young men and women learned to cope without limbs that they had once taken for granted. One was not to consider the impact that would be when a loved one on touching the veteran in the dark of night gave an involuntary start at finding a healed stump where an arm or leg had once been- an element of a "whole person" that no sophisticated prosthetic could ever adequately replace.

And there was the smell.

More than anything it was the smell of hospitals and especially military hospitals that made the gorge rise in Winters' throat. That awful anti-septic and sterile smell that formed the inadequate olfactory veneer over the smell of blood and wounds.

Still, one had to choke it all down for morale's sake. One had to participate in the overall lie of seeing what was supposed to be acknowledged and walking blindly by what was not.

One was expected to participate in what was essentially a shrug to "the way things are in war".

It made it more bearable to have a purpose in visiting these sanctuaries of mercy and recovery.

Doctors and nurses had the healing and rehabilitating those who could be treated- it was how they found strength to wear their thin veils from day to day.

Winters had the purpose also- visiting Gecko.

Winters had made the trip to the hospital no less than a dozen times to visit Gecko, more than any other pilot in Knight Hawk Squadron. It was not that Winters felt more obligated to come and spend time than the others, it was simply a fact that he had more time available to him.

Winters was always sure to remind Gecko that his fellow pilots always had him in their thoughts, but that increased flight duties prevented them from stepping in as frequently as they normally would have. He was also equally sure _not_ to mention that his higher frequency of visits was in no small part an escape from that circle of hell known as "the office". Gecko enjoyed the visits and was a sport because even though Winters suspected he understood his CO's ulterior motives, he never brought it up.

Arriving by elevator on the floor where the non-critical recovery wards were located, Winters realized that despite a dozen or more visits- that one hall was indistinguishable from the next. Fortunately the architects who had planned the hospital anticipated the disorientation their building would cause in visitors and they compensated accordingly.

Winters was able to find the one familiar feature on the floor- the nurse's station at the convergence of the halls. There three nurses, two female and a male, formed a medical huddle around an LCD computer screen – quietly absorbed in whatever it was that nurses did at nurse's stations.

So absorbed were the three in their mysterious activity that Winters was standing unnoticed for nearly a minute before he felt inclined to announce his presence by clearing his throat.

"Can I help you, Colonel?", asked the fair-skinned black woman in the immaculate blue scrubs who sat behind the terminal keyboard.

Keeping his voice low for reasons that he himself couldn't understand- one always seemed inclined to be quiet in a hospital- Winters replied, "Yes, could one of you be a dear- or a _chap_ \- and direct me to Captain Home? Sadly, I seem to have misplaced him.."

"Morning visiting hours aren't until ten-hundred, sir.", the senior nurse said firmly but benignly, "We really shouldn't-."

Winters cut her short without being overbearing, "Yes, I realize that but you see the thing of it is that this is more official than personal. I'm to be in a meeting around the time of your visiting hours and we're going over the details of Captain Home's, uh- _incident_ \- and I need just a little more detail."

The nurses at the station exchanged a glance with one another. In terms of hospital operations, rank had no bearing and Winters expected to be told to come back after ten.

Pitying Winters perhaps- possibly for the early hour or possibly for the weak story he had tried to pass off as justification- the senior nurse relented.

"B-8, sir.", the nurse said refreshing Winters' memory of exactly where Gecko had been residing since his close encounter with a shoulder-fired SAM.

" _Ah-._ Bingo.", Winters replied, the joke not carrying as well as he might have hoped, "Thank you."

Winters began to walk away when the nurse called after him, "Don't forget your _official business_ , sir."

Winters spotted the waxed paper bag containing the consumable contraband he'd brought in with him specifically for Home and contrary to hospital rules.

"Right-."

Gurneys, wheelchairs, and fragile-looking pieces of rolling hospital equipment lined the walls of the hall that branched to either side into open air wards. "B-Ward", marked so by a sign, suddenly became very familiar to Winters as he entered.

The privacy curtain to bed #8 moved aside unexpectedly as Winters reached for it to reveal a figure in black standing just behind.. Winters started involuntarily, the white collar of a priest doing nothing to offset the surprise of nearly walking into him.

The clergyman was Father Howard, whom Winters recognized as the shepherd of the Catholic parish in Edwards City that Home attended. Though he had no formal affiliation with the military or military matters, Father Howard could almost be expected to be seen on base with the nuns of his church when the need for humanity or compassion exceeded what the RDF had provisioned Edwards.

Family activities for service personnel, Food and clothing drives organized for dwellers of The Outlands, or just spreading comfort and reassurance to the wounded in the hospital- Father Howard's uniform was as common and recognized a sight as any uniform on Edwards.

While Winters did not interact with Howard on a regular basis (he being C of E- _technically_ ), the lieutenant colonel had spoken with the priest on several occasions, the most recent having been at the baptism of Gecko's daughter almost a year and a half back now.

What struck the officer most was that there was immediate and genuine recognition in the priest's face upon seeing him before he stooped over at the waist to pick up the wax paper bag that Winters had not realized he had dropped.

"Colonel, you're looking well-.", Father Howard said, handing the bag back to Winters who accepted it.

Howard was a man of roughly the same age as Winters and who looked equally worn by the weight of his tasks as the squadron commander. Winters had to give the clergyman credit for durability though as his burdens didn't end with the chocks being kicked into place and the shut-down of engines.

"Minor episodes of cardiac arrest not withstanding-.", Winters said, feeling and sounding winded, " _Jesus Christ, Padre-_ don't do that again please-."

"No need to blaspheme, Colonel.", Father Howard said more correctively than scornfully.

Winters tried to look around the priest who stood slightly shorter than he to his pilot's bed, "Please tell me you weren't administering last rites-."

Howard stifled a chuckle- unlike the popular stereotype of priests, Howard displayed a well-developed, even a sometimes off-color sense of humor. As one would expect of a man of his solemn vows though, he was quick to govern himself when slips did occur.

"Not at all.", Howard explained, "This past Sunday I spoke to Catherine after services and she said how being cooped up in the hospital was having an ill effect on Alan. Sister Gloria must have overheard this because yesterday afternoon I found a shoebox full of get-well cards made by her third grade class on my desk in my office. I was just delivering them."

Winters raised the bag and explained simply, "Food. –Gecko would probably do better to eat what you brought him though."

Father Howard patted Winters on the shoulder as he side-stepped him to leave, "It's the spirit of the act that counts, Colonel- Good deeds nourish the soul of the giver and the receiver."

"You would say it like that, wouldn't you, Padre?"

Howard waved over his shoulder as he left the ward, "Give my regards to your squadron and to Rio."

Staggered that the priest would remember Rio who to the best of Winters' memory had only met Howard the one time at the baptism, the pilot only managed, "And mine to your boss-."

Gecko was sitting upright in bed with a dozen or more construction paper and crayon cards fanned out across his lap when Winters stepped through the curtain. The squadron commander dropped the bag into the company of the other offerings as he took the seat beside the bed last occupied by the priest.

"I brought you something bad for you-.", Winters said as he set his wheel cap and cane-half made swagger stick on the bedside table.

Gecko opened the bag to the smell of fast food that by now was only just above room temperature.

" _Mmmmmm-._ _Congealing grease_ , the major part of a healthy breakfast. No coffee?"

Winters dug around in the interior of his leather flight jacket and produced a flask with the squadron crest emblazoned on it and handed it to the convalescing Home.

"I'm on a military salary, remember? Be grateful for what you get."

Home, sandwich in one hand, the flask in the other, replied around a mouthful of semi-chewed biscuit and sausage, "Fair enough-. What brings you out this way, Jack?"

Winters shrugged, "Oh, you know-. Trying to get malingering pilots back into their planes- it's part of my job."

Home prodded back, "How do you find the time with all of the desk-jockeying?"

Winters drew breath through his teeth, feigning the receipt of sharp pain, " _Touché._ The chaps were just asking about you, so I thought I would drop by."

"Nice of you-.", Home said warmly, "I must be popular- two visitors in an hour."

Winters glanced in the direction that Father Howard had departed in, "I saw. I'm not sure how he got in- _I_ had to lie about official business. To be honest, the Vicar scared the dickens out of me for a moment there that _he_ was on official business too. I was worried you'd gone tango-uniform on us."

Home shook his head as another bite of his sandwich brought it down to the half-gone point, "Nope-. Only thing around here likely to kill me is boredom- or the food. And Father Howard has his work cut out for him-."

"How's that?"

"Scaring the dickens out of you-. Good luck."

Winters hadn't recognized the irony of the common phrase until Home had pointed it out. He laughed briefly, encouraged that Home's mind was sharp as ever.

"Yeah, good luck to him. So any word on when you're out?"

Gecko made a non-committal gesture, "Today, tomorrow at the latest I hope. That doesn't mean that the flight surgeon will clear me to saddle up right away- but at least I'm not here."

"Home for the holidays and all of that.", Winters said.

"Something like that I'm hoping. My face won't be as pretty for the family photos this year, but that's life I guess."

The bandages that had once covered the entire right side of Gecko's face had been replaced by smaller ones that covered injuries directly. Even the dark bruising around the pilot's right eye had subsided.

Not sounding convinced, Winters said, "Well, it is the season for miracles."

"Amen to that.", Home agreed with more conviction as he tipped Winters' flask in a toasting gesture.

Forty-five minutes of visitation with Gecko was about the limit that Winters could stand, not because of a lack of fondness for his subordinate and friend but rather because of his limited tolerance for his surroundings.

The walk to the base's main administrative building, a distance of just under two kilometers, and the time required to walk it in order to make it to his office by the start of his expected duty hours gave the lieutenant colonel justification to part company with Gecko. This was fine by both as they had had sufficient time to trade pleasantries, a few jokes, and what little important information had needed to be exchanged before the attending physician had begun morning rounds with his cadre.

After casual farewells and with the smells of the hospital becoming intolerably thick in his nostrils, Winters had made a hasty retreat to the elevators trying to breathe as little as possible before reaching the fresh air just a short ride and slightly longer walk away.

The surprise of finding Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni standing at the back of the descending elevator that opened to allow him on was enough to distract Winters from the odors of medical science.

The wing's fighter group commander was attired similarly to Winters in her flight suit and aviator's jacket, but physically had a more used and weary appearance about her. Her Valkyrie squadron, the Vigilantes, was coming off a week's rotation of intense operations in The Outlands- some of the results of which explained her presence in the base hospital.

Knight Hawk Squadron had skirted tragedy with Gecko's close encounter with a SAM. The Vigilantes had seen four of their own, a quarter of the squadron,, put into the hospital for various injuries received during the operations of only seven days.

The escalation in malcontent activity and resistance in The Outlands that had put four of Mumuni's pilots into the infirmary was the same reason that squadrons were being attached to NORAMWEST from elsewhere on the globe.

As dire as the situation was becoming in The Outlands, it did not escape Winters that Major General Butler had not returned him to "ready" flight status. Obviously part of his punishment for Salvador was to be that he would sit able-bodied on the sidelines of the fight while his comrades and subordinates were mauled.

Aware of this disparity wear that Mumuni was showing, he was both reserved and respectful in his greeting.

"Colonel, ma'am."

Mumuni nodded back, saying only, "-Jack."

Winters stood to the side of the elevator car and wrung his swagger stick in his hands behind his back as the doors closed and the trip to the lobby level continued. Mumuni slumped against the rear of the car, relaxed that only Winters would see her in this state. Winters took this as an indicator that he too could stand more at ease and did so without comment.

"How's Gecko?", Mumuni asked drawing her hand wearily over her face from her forehead to her chin as though the fatigue could be wiped away like sweat. The stress did not come away so easily, but the gesture seemed to make Mumuni feel better so Winters allowed her general appearance to go without comment.

"On the mend.", Winters said simply, "Mentally ready to be out of here. Physically-. Well, the doctors will say one way or the other today we're hoping. –And Corkscrew?"

Mumuni shrugged.

Major Charles "Corkscrew" Ethan had been the reason for Colonel Mumuni's visit to the hospital, being one of three casualties incurred on the same CAP of The Outlands three days before. Captain Miranda "Bucket" Pale had walked out of the hospital the day before with tissue damage and fractures to her left arm.

Captain Aaron "Humbug" Wilcock was still a resident of the hospital morgue after succumbing to injuries during surgery the day before and would be until the squadron could be relieved to attend a funeral whose arrangements were still being made by a fiancé who Winters knew of but could remember neither by name or face.

"Fine enough- all things considered.", Mumuni said as the elevator reached the lobby level and the doors opened. The elevator foyer was occupied by only a pair of nurses in their pale green scrubs who traded places on the elevator without comment or salutation with the two officers.

"-Fine enough to walk out of this place _eventually_.", Mumuni said, completing the statement she had begun in the elevator as she and Winters crossed over into the hospital main lobby with the typical lobby furniture that was most comfortable when you weren't sitting on it..

"That's something.", Winters said impartially.

Mumuni shook her head as the pair crossed the highly polished floor to the sound of their own boot heels. She replied with a noticeable edge not directed at Winters, "He's not out of the woods yet. The nurse said that the doctors are optimistic that he'll pull through. No one's willing to speculate on how well he'll pull through though. There's almost certainly nerve damage. I think it's fair to say that his time in the cockpit is over. But between him and Humbug, Corkscrew got the better deal-."

Winters nodded without a word.

Corkscrew _had_ gotten the better deal despite the dealing of the same hand. Much the way that Gecko had gotten a face full of SAM during a low pass on a malcontent position, Corkscrew, Humbug, and Bucket had all taken their licking in the same flight element doing nearly the same thing. The element lead- the only pilot to escape without a scratch in the incident- had ordered his ships in to strike what had been identified as defended cache of weapons held by malcontent Zentraedi.

"Defended" as the FAC and the platoon of RDF-Army regulars he had been attached to had meant Zentraedi in a platoon's strength or more in defilade that was easily protected by small arms and medium machinegun. SOP, and completely appropriate under the circumstances was to call in air support rather than risk ground assault.

It was only when the Valkyrie element came in on a steady azimuth to deliver cluster munitions in a blanket strike of the area that two radar-directed guns had made their presence known from nearby depressions.

Going "low and slow" as they had been, and in a straight line between the two gun positions that allowed for prolonged exposure to crossfire, the Vigilantes had been the proverbial sitting ducks.

Valkyries were tough, durable, and designed to take punishment- true- but they were designed as nimble fighters first and foremost. A blaze of anti-aircraft fire at near point-blank range was not a punishment that the Valkyrie was intended or designed to shrug off.

A hail of 25mm explosive shells had made a mess of three Valkyries in as many seconds. Element Lead and Bucket had been quickest to climb away and the fraction of a second that Corkscrew and Humbug had lingered had made all the difference.

Corkscrew's fighter had taken two shells head-on in the canopy- destroying the acrylic windscreen and bubble, but absorbing most of the damage.

Examination of the damage to Humbug's fighter had shown he had taken only one shell at nearly an oblique angle- but the high-explosive round had penetrated the cockpit before exploding.

Luck was the last card that any pilot liked to play as it ceded control to an external and intangible force. There were times though when it was hard to argue that luck wasn't the _only_ factor between near-tragedy and tragedy.

Winters had been in Flight Ops with just about every other soul who had authorization and who could squeeze in as the Vigilantes had come home to Edwards. Miraculously, all, even the severely wounded Humbug for whom SAR had been deployed expecting him to have to eject on his return flight, had managed to land their planes. Wilcock's plane had barely stopped rolling when the medics descended upon it and had whisked what was left of him away.

Cheers had gone up in Flight Ops over the return of all of the ships that had gone out that morning. Only later did word spread that the celebration was premature.

"Still, that's something.", Mumuni said referring again to the promise of Ethan's recovery to nearly full health.

It was.

-And hadn't they gotten the bastards?

They- the second element of Vigilantes who had been participating in the CAP that morning- had gotten the bastards in what could have only been called "extreme reciprocity".

Both gun emplacements and the malcontent-defended weapons cache had absorbed every cluster bomb, rocket, and GU-11 cannon shell the undamaged ships had carried to the point where the FAC had been recorded by the OA's AWACS as asking whether the pilots had identified new targets that he had been unaware of.

The odd part of the event that was heavily laden with unfortunate details was revealed when the after-action reports of the Vigilantes had been merged with that of the army platoon that had called them in on the malcontents. Their inspection of the cache (or what remained of it) after securing the position had shown it to be a stockpile of very little significance. Some food, some medicine, some small arms and ammunition.

It had been booty of little significance that the Zentraedi had defended like lions. The only assets of real value and worth defending had been the guns that had ambushed the Valkyrie element- and those could have likely been saved had the malcontents simply fled their position and drawn the RDF away with them.

In Winters' mind, therein lay the problem.

From speaking to his own pilots and from reading the reports coming across the intelligence desk from not only other squadrons at Edwards but across the NORAMWEST base cluster, this pointless brazenness was becoming common.

The Zentraedi had developed some form of bloodlust beyond their normal willingness to fight. Where before they would eagerly defend themselves and what they had stolen or acquired, they now seemed intent on exposing themselves to almost certain death just for the chance to have a shot at a Valkyrie.

But it wasn't just Valkyries.

Army patrols had been experiencing more and more ambushes that did not conform to the standard hit-and-run pattern that weaker forces employed on stronger ones. Fights were increasingly vicious and to the last man- or Zentraedi.

While the malcontents were increasingly aggressive toward anything in The Outlands, a peculiar trend had also begun to emerge in the pattern of their attacks. Rovers and supply vehicles were being taken in The Outlands whenever malcontents could get their hands on them and at costs in casualties that seemed disproportionate to the value of the mostly unarmed vehicles.

There had even been cases where supplies being carried by transports would be found discarded following the seizure of the trucks carrying them.

It was the strange and more frequent occurrences like this that Troubled Winters the most.

He could understand the malcontent need for transports in the wastelands, but to throw away supplies of any kind was just beyond reason. No niche of malcontents isolated in The Outlands was so well-provisioned that they could not benefit from a truckload of supplies- to trade if for nothing else.

There had been speculation in some intelligence groups that the malcontents might be intending a push north into the lower regions of Canada. This might explain the need for vehicles (not even Zentraedi would walk that distance if they didn't have to) but not the violence.

If they wanted to slip away, escalating the violence only served to work against them.

Perhaps, Winters had thought repeatedly, they just wanted to feel like Zentraedi again and not marooned castaways.

Winters would have normally consulted Mumuni on these ponderings, but now was hardly the time. He recognized also that he was hardly in a position where he could claim legitimacy in his observations. He was a raptor with clipped wings. These were observations to be made and questions to be asked by those who were not bench-warming (as Freddy had put it on occasion- not referring to Winters) on the sidelines.

"It's something.", Winters agreed as he followed Mumuni out of the automatic sliding doors at the front of the lobby and into the chill of the pre-dawn air.

In the time that Winters had spent in Gecko's company, an Army engineering detachment had arrived on one of the broad lawns beyond the hospital's staff parking lots. Measurements were being made and marker posts being driven into the neatly kept grassy expanse. The underlying reason lay in duffle-style sacks that were as large as man was tall and were being pushed at intervals off a truck that was moving slowly across the manicured grass.

Winters remembered that it was nearly the end of the month, and December at that.

It was common practice for military posts that skirted The Outlands or those in areas devoid of substantial population centers to offer at least minimal medical services to the isolated civilians in their spheres of operation. The bases of NORAMWEST rotated responsibility for this detail throughout the year.

As Nellis and China Lake would do in turn, Edwards would erect a tent city on post with a fully-functional medical clinic and all of the other necessities to temporarily support a population that could easily swell to over a thousand. Civilians would be examined by medics at pre-determined sites throughout The Outlands to assess condition and need, and those requiring services that could not be provided in the field would be choppered back to the base and be bivouacked until they could receive proper attention.

Every need from pre-natal exams and check-ups to dental and eye care, as well as almost any other medical concern, would be tended to in turn before the civilians were returned to the areas they called "home". It was far from a perfect system, but it did make some tangible difference in the lives of those who would otherwise have to go without even basic medical care. More importantly though, it gave the military- and by extension the UE Government- "face time" with the isolated populations.

In this way, the military and the Government were a real entity showing concern and not some vague notion that could be easily abandoned in the face of the demands of survival.

Winters had heard "Vice" Vincenz from his flight refer to it once, off-the-cuff, as, "band-aid and toothbrush diplomacy"- alluding to the basic hygiene supplies the civilians were returned to the wilderness with- complements of the RDF. The term had stuck with Winters, seeming appropriate.

The sun would be coming up soon, and with it Mumuni would be leading her flight on the last CAP of their rotation. Some of their duties would be ensuring that collection points for the movement of civilians to Edwards were free of malcontent influence or threat. The Vigilantes would also serve as the "on-call" air support for any unit in the OA that may require them.

It all boiled down to the squadron simply finishing their turn running the risks that Humbug, Corkscrew, and Gecko were all too familiar with.

Mumuni still had some time before preflight and mission briefing which was evident by the fact that she stopped with the clear intent to smoke.

Winters was quicker on the draw and had produced a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Mumuni before she had found her own in her inner coat pockets.

Mumuni accepted a cigarette and the flame from Winters' Zippo with a small laugh.

"I thought you never carried your own."

Winters lit a cigarette for himself and inhaled it both deeply and gratefully as it drove the stench of the hospital from his nose and throat.

"That's only what I tell my chaps so I can bum fags from them."

"You're a devious son-of-a-bitch, Winters- you know that don't you?"

"And that's on my good days.", Winters admitted proudly, "A cushy office job and still all of the benefits of a lieutenant colonel-. The world is my oyster. I don't even have to carry Arnie's golf clubs on Sundays."

Mumuni blew a long stream of smoke into the cold desert air and said, "I was thinking about that-."

"What, you want me to carry _your_ golf clubs-?"

" _No_ \- I don't play.", Mumuni said bluntly, "I meant getting you out from behind that damn desk while you still remember what a Valkyrie looks like."

Winters laughed with genuine amusement, "Oh, Arnie's just going to leap at that- let me tell you."

"I was going to talk to him about it.", Mumuni said, "I just wanted to talk to you first."

Winters fell silent for a moment and then said contemplatively, "I wouldn't want you to stick your neck out for me-."

Mumuni glared icy fire at her taller subordinate, "It's _not_ a favor, Jack-. I need pilots. We're getting shot to pieces out there and General Butler has one of our better sticks filing- _supply invoices_ \- or whatever the hell it is that you do all day-."

"Arnie's call, not mine.", Winters said defensively.

Mumuni finished her cigarette with a long drag that came out in an equally exaggerated stream.

"Yeah, Arnie's call- but I think it's a bad one, all things being as they are now."

Winters watched as Mumuni ignored a nearby ashtray and flicked her butt off into the decorative flower bed that ran alongside the walkway.

"Good luck convincing him."

Mumuni's hands slipped into her pockets to escape the chilled air, "Any thoughts on how to go about that? You're _so_ good with people-."

"That I am."

 **RDF Headquarters, Yellowstone City**

The morning intelligence briefing to Major General Clarke and subsequent "round table" had gone as well as any briefing and gathering of the intelligence divisions' top leaders could hope to go.

Commander Anne Weitzel had come to the conclusion that all of the fiery conflicts had to occur at that level to allow the working grades to focus on their mutual responsibilities to the higher command and to one another.

No blood had been spilled this morning though- or at least not the kind that was visible.

The peculiar side-effect of so emotionally-charged debates as the ones that the round-tables inevitably became was the euphoric "high" that one carried away form the experience- an adrenaline rush.

Weitzel had come up through the RDF Intelligence services and had made the transition to the REF without having ever deployed on a "combat" rotation. It had always been a matter of either not enough ships in service requiring an intelligence officer, or that by the time that the Fleet's size had exploded she had risen too high in rank to fill the billets available.

For whatever reason, Weitzel had never experienced the rush of combat that others with Fleet deployments under their belts spoke of cryptically. To Weitzel, intelligence had always been a methodical, analytical process distanced from physical danger.

In attending Major General Clarke's "round-tables", Weitzel was beginning to suspect that she was soon to be a seasoned veteran of a brand of combat particular to her job and her colleagues'.

A different sensation had come over Weitzel following the morning's meeting though- one that had not faded with distance from the near shouting match that marked the crescendo of nearly every round-table. It was a knot in the stomach caused by nerves that came from knowing that she had been summoned to enter uncharted territories.

Weitzel was going "Upstairs".

The RDF Headquarters building and the Intelligence Annex in which Weitzel worked had been standing and operating on the Federal Plaza in Yellowstone City for some eight years now- and she had unpacked her box of professional belongings into a cubicle when the building had still smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. She had never had occasion though to venture into the area of the complex that housed the Office of the Military Chief of Staff.

It was for this reason and to hopefully give her apprehensions time to settle themselves that Weitzel had elected to take the stairs up one level instead of the elevator.

OMCS may have been the same RDF, but it was clearly a different world from the one that Weitzel was familiar with.

There were no open suites of cubicle farms with their constant murmur of low conversation, the chirp of phones, or the incessant clatter of fingers on keyboards. A broad, immaculate corridor with marble flooring and decorated and appointed more like the hall of a palace or a luxury hotel was punctuated at regular intervals by solid wood doorways with gleaming brass handles, flag stands holding the appropriate standards, and identification plaques with inscriptions such as, "Chief of Fleet Operations", or; "Air Force Chief of Staff".

When officers or enlisted emerged from doorways or passed Weitzel in the hall they were dressed in inspection-ready Class-A uniforms to the man or woman- a departure from the more relaxed dress code Weitzel was accustomed to in the maze of cubes that was the IFD office. A moment's panic seized Weitzel in realizing that her uniform, though a navy blue, had suffered coffee stains some time in the not-so-distant past that dry cleaning had never completely removed. As the initial fear of reproach and reprimand subsided, Weitzel felt the uncomfortable shame of vanity in recognizing that the shock was the same as the shock she had felt as a teenager discovering a blemish on her face in the mirror.

 _Just keep moving and no one will notice._

Commander Weitzel identified by instinct the Office of the Military Chief of Staff from some distance and well before she could identify the flags of each service that stood outside the double doors, before she could read the plaque beside the doorway, or before she recognized the recess across the corridor as the private elevator specifically intended to shuttle the MCS through the levels of Headquarters. She had to remind herself that the impression she was feeling was one carefully crafted into the placement of and approach to the office.

Turning the handle to the double doors, Weitzel half-expected a booming voice to demand to know who dared to disturb The Great Oz- but there was none. Instead, an expansive reception area and office suite lay beyond. Weitzel shut the door carefully and quietly behind herself and crossed over the OMCS seal inlaid into the floor as she moved toward one of the administrative assistant's desks where a familiar face stood in official conversation with the REF senior petty officer behind it.

Colonel Kalehahea caught sight of Weitzel out of the corner of his eye and concluded quickly the business he had with his staff to greet her.

"Commander- I was worried you'd gotten lost.", Kalehahea said, advancing several steps to meet her.

"No sir.", Weitzel replied, "The meeting went long. I apologize for keeping you waiting."

Kalehahea, a fit, stocky Polynesian man of medium height whose box-top haircut was geometrically perfect shook his head with a smile, "No need to explain to me- I sit in on them. They don't really adhere to a schedule, but tend to go as long as General Clarke has patience for them."

"Still-.", Weitzel said, "I apologize for keeping you waiting- you're busy."

Kalehahea smiled, "Well, in all fairness then- it's not _me_ who's been waiting to speak to you."

Weitzel was certain she felt her stomach bottom out atop her left ankle as the colonel motioned toward the MCS' office.

"This way-.", Kalehahea said in a casual way that could only come from someone accustomed to interacting with the senior-most ranking military officer in the Robotech Defense Forces on a daily basis.

Weitzel reminded herself that dealing with a five-star general was no different in protocol than was interacting with the full colonel who was leading her to him.

Weitzel also reminded herself to breathe.

Kalehahea knocked on the office door central to the reception area and opened it a crack.

"General, sir-. Commander Weitzel of the Information Fusion Division is here to see you as you requested."

"Come in.", was the reply in the deep, baritone voice that was of course familiar to Weitzel from sound and video clips on the news, and of course messages (normally of a morale-building nature) viewed at unit stand-ups.

Weitzel was unsure of what she had expected to furnish and decorate the office of the Military Chief of Staff, but she was immediately certain that what she found would not have been her expectation.

The walls were adorned minimally and with both framed photos and portraits that might have as easily been quickly chosen to decorate a conference room as the senior military officer's domain. A leather couch and chair set straddled a finely polished but otherwise unremarkable wooden coffee table to one side of the room, while a series of flat-panel plasma television monitors hung darkened on the same wall that contained the door to the personal lavatory.

The general's desk was large- spanning nearly the width of the large, curtain-drawn windows behind it. Its contents, like the office, were spartan. A flat-screen computer monitor, keyboard, touch-sensitive mouse pad, and a phone as the items of highest technology were present. Only a pen holder with writing implements, a pad of official OMCS stationary, and a plain desk clock occupied the desktop otherwise.

General Breetai was far more impressive and imposing in his sheer physical size and appearance. With much of the right side of his face and head covered by a metal half-helmet that both provided protection to the general's skull from ancient wounds and housed an unblinking electronic eye, one was still held and commanded by the gaze of his remaining natural eye.

The expression worn on the officer's pale blue face was stoic but not distant or unfriendly, and despite his size that was impressive by even the standards held to micronized Zentraedi males- his aura was not threatening.

Weitzel was at a loss for how to begin and was preparing to start with a generic salutation when General Breetai relieved her of the burden.

"Thank you for coming up, Commander."

Unsure of what else to say, Weitzel replied, "Thank you for having me up, sir- it's an honor and a privilege. –Though, I'm not exactly sure as to why I'm here-."

Breetai's mouth turned up slightly at the corners in a tight-lipped smile and a short, grunting laugh filled the office.

"Of course not, Commander. If you knew that without hint or clue you'd be well on your way to having me appoint you Chief of Military intelligence. I'll waste neither your valuable time nor mine hinting at what can be said directly though-."

Breetai opened a drawer behind his desk and removed a dossier folder, set it down on his desktop, and opened the brown face of the jacket to expose the fifty pages or more within. He thumbed quickly over pages that had clearly been gone through more than once by virtue of hand notes and markings in Zentraedi symbols that Weitzel could see from where she stood.

"Many officers and enlisted personnel in the various disciplines believe that their work rises to perhaps a level or two above them and is then lost to obscurity.", Breetai commented as he reached the end of the dossier and then closed the face of the jacket on the pages again, "But that simply isn't true, Commander. Sometimes great insight can be gained from reading information that is unfiltered and unprocessed by its movement up the chain of command."

"A short time ago, an intelligence object- a hypothesis of sorts, named _Ascension_ crossed my desk and I had occasion to read it. I don't need to go into the details, Commander- you wrote it. –Intriguing. _Quite_ intriguing- ."

Weitzel tried to grip with her toes at the inside of her shoes so that she would not come out of them. The tight-chested apprehension she'd entered the office with had dissolved and had been replaced with a strange euphoria akin to the first time a college professor had engaged her in conversation in class more like a peer than a student. Some part of her smirked inwardly and wished that Glenmont could have been present to silently observe a discussion between General Breetai and she on an intelligence project that came not only from her office but from her hand.

"Thank you, sir."

"Intriguing-.", Breetai repeated, then added the caveat, "-but not compelling with supporting facts. In short, Commander- it's interesting speculation. It did capture my curiosity though."

Weitzel found that some of the tightness in her chest had returned and she had to restrain herself from blurting out some defense for the thoughts she had committed to paper. Knowing that such an outburst would both likely abruptly end her audience with the Military Chief of Staff and at the same time make her look like a raving lunatic- Weitzel maintained her composure.

"In the three months since you wrote this", Breetai continued, "a perceivable change in the posture and the behavior of unindoctrinated Zentraedi has spread from the very region you identified in your hypothesis through much of South America, through all of Central America, and into a sizable portion of the west and southwest North American continent. It may only be coincidence- it is _likely_ coincidence- but sometimes coincidences are not coincidences at all. I'm wondering, Commander, why your hypothesis has not been supplemented or updated in these three months?"

Feeling now like a third-grader caught not having done her homework, Weitzel replied with an effort not to sound sheepish, "General, sir, in all honesty I was unaware that anyone other than General Shiloah had even read or had any interest in it. I have been monitoring the developing situation in malcontent activities in the Americas, and have my theories of how they would fit into my hypothesis- but without resources to explore these theories, they are just theories. To the point, General sir, intelligence resources are strained enough coping with tangible events. Hoping to divert them to explore a theory is a professional pipe-dream, realistically speaking."

Breetai nodded, showing understanding.

"I see. The need for resources almost invariably exceeds the supply. This much is true. Let me be sure that I understand your hypothesis clearly though-."

"You believe that at some point a cooperative effort formed between marooned Zentraedi within The Control Zone and rogue Zentraedi fleet elements still operating in the Sol system to extricate warriors from Earth to possibly rejoin Imperial service?"

Weitzel nodded, "Yes sir, in short."

General Breetai continued, "You believe that a seemingly random encounter between a flight of A.R.M.D.-based Veritech fighters and a Zentraedi Re-Entry Pod was an indication of this cooperative effort?"

"Not the encounter itself sir", Weitzel explained, "But it is noteworthy that the transmissions detailed in my report began _after_ the downing of that craft. It is also a fact that the craft was not confirmed as a _kill-_. Its destruction was never verified."

"I did read the outline, Commander.", Breetai reminded Weitzel.

"Of course, sir. Pardon me."

Unperturbed, Breetai continued, "Coded signals that to this point we've been unable to decrypt-?"

"That's correct, sir.", Weitzel affirmed, "We've run them through every Zentraedi algorithm we have, backwards and forward- and even a few we've developed on our own- but with no success. We're looking at an entirely new encryption sequence, General Breetai."

Breetai folded his hands together on the desktop to form a mass not much smaller than a small turkey and thought for a moment. After that moment had passed, he revealed his thoughts simply, saying:

"This could all be coincidence, Commander, but I'm driven by a factor that perhaps your peers and superiors are incapable or unwilling to see. They do not understand the Zentraedi as a whole. Certainly they understand facets of the Warrior mindset, to be sure- but they do not understand my people as a whole."

" _Defeat_ , Commander, is not a concept familiar to or readily accepted by Zentraedi- and the smashing of Dolza's forces was a defeat unlike anything the Zentraedi have ever experienced. You see, we think of wars in terms of being fought over generations and not just years. In a very real sense, the event that most humans consider having ended the so-called _Robotech War_ \- was to Zentraedi perception only a single battle of an ongoing conflict."

"They have not quit the fight, Commander Weitzel. I know this because _I_ would not if I were in their place."

Breetai fell silent again. He remained that way for what seemed to Weitzel as a long time, but she was unconcerned. She sensed that she was closer now- though closer to what was still a question.

"Do you know what one of the best things about my rank and position is, Commander Weitzel?", Breetai asked after letting his internal thoughts run their course.

A mischievous imp in the deep recesses of Weitzel's brain caused her to immediately think of the fantastic parking space if not chauffeured limousine provided to the Military Chief of Staff- but she answered as was expected.

"No sir."

"One of the great things about my job, Commander", Breetai explained, "is that resources never seem to be an issue when _I_ ask for something."

"On your behalf, Commander, I am going to ask for some resources. You will provide Colonel Kalehahea with your wish list, and you will have it for a short time. Understand though that as you said, there are real activities and operations that are ongoing, so these resources will dry up. Do not get greedy, Commander."

Weitzel shook her head, "I won't, General. Thank you."

In earnest, Breetai told her, "You'll thank me by providing regular reports. Twice a day at noon and twenty-hundred hours to justify my generosity. And be assured, Commander- if this tree bears no fruit I'll be just as quick to see it cut down."

"I understand clearly, sir."

Breetai opened his hands with a simple gesture, "Good then. We're done here for the time being. You are dismissed, Commander."

Weitzel nodded with a respectful, "Thank you, sir."

As she turned to leave, Breetai said after her almost as a parting thought, "Commander-. I have to admit that I hope you're wrong in your hypothesis."

Weitzel stopped briefly to face the general again as she spoke, "Me too, sir. We'll see."

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

The volume of activity within the UE commandeered Robotech Factory's #4 Module main spacedock could have easily appeared chaotic to an outsider to operations. In the vast expanse between the mooring slips at which several dozen cruisers of the Fleet were anchored smaller craft- tugs, shuttles, and maintenance vehicles mostly- moved from point to point in great numbers.

The truth of the matter was that the movements of craft both large and small were neither chaotic nor hazardous, but rather most intricately choreographed.

To the eyes that would have seen chaos in the three-dimensional ballet of craft it would also have seemed unlikely that it had been scarcely four years since the automated facility had been pressed into Earth's service.

Captured in a joint human-Zentraedi operation, the station now assigned the name "Walhalla" had undergone a crash program of refitting and modification to serve its new masters.

The process had involved more than structural changes to the facility's interior spaces though.

In the centuries that the GS-95 had served The Robotech Masters by supporting the cosmos-roaming fleets of the Zentraedi, it had been controlled entirely by a Hypercomp computer system like every other of its colossal siblings. Semi-sentient, the Hypercomp had been quickly- and to some proponents of artificial intelligence- _crudely_ disconnected from the major functions of the station. Considerations as basic as life support for the frail, organic captors that would have normally been monitored and regulated by the Hypercomp had to be assimilated and governed by the new governing body of aliens with their highly incompatible technology.

The learning curve had been steep and not without incident in replacing the Hypercomp's dynamic control of the factory with more compartmentalized and crew-driven systems. The first six months of RDF control had seen 48 deaths as systems were stood up in operational experimentation.

Lessons were learned with each tragedy though and those lessons applied to ever-improving control systems.

Some had argued that the alien technologies involved in effectively operating the GS-95 were too complex to be reliably replaced in mass with more familiar human technologies. These voices had argued that with proper monitoring the Hypercomp would _likely_ obey the mandates of Zentraedi officers who could act as liaisons with the computer life-form on behalf of The United Earth.

These voices were given audience, their arguments heard- but in the end for reasons discussed only behind closed doors it was decided that the Hypercomp was at its core a minion to The Robotech Masters. Without certainty of its loyalty, The United Earth Government decided on the only course of action that was left to it: partial lobotomization.

Quietly and before objection could be raised by any who might object, the Hypercomp was functionally and intellectually whittled down to a security-acceptable level of operation.

So much for Asimovesque notions of AI potential or the rights that they may have been entitled to.

Hypercomp had spent its time since tending to the purely manufacturing aspects of its intended purpose. Material and machines both civilian and military were analyzed and reverse-engineered by the Hypercomp before being churned out flawlessly and in mind-boggling quantity off of innumerable automated production lines. Medicines and even MRE food stuffs in scarce supply and in great need by a slowly starving world population were provided for as well.

A wry wit had even commented to the press preemptively that the GS-95 produced food _wasn't_ people. Though the question of what had happened to hundreds of thousands of hibernating Zentraedi had never been broached in great detail either-.

U.E.S.S. _Gordon P. Samuels_ had cleared the inner channel space doors of the dock minutes before under human-monitored automatic pilot and had been joined by manned space tugs in her progress toward one of the countless slips in the repair yard. Easily dwarfed in gross tonnage and dimensions by any of her Zentraedi distant cousins, _Gordon P. Samuels_ did have a distinction that could rouse human pride in being one of the first twenty of the _Stratford_ Class frigates of Terran design and construction. While Zentraedi warships from Breetai's former command were being modified and refitted by the hundreds to address the possible need for large scale, deep space fleet actions in the future- the backbone of the rapidly expanding REF Fleet was smaller ships of the frigate and corvette classifications.

Though lacking the heavy firepower in energy weapons that was common to all but two classes of Zentraedi warship- the frigates and corvettes coming into REF service were wholly appropriate in design and armament for the missions they were intended to perform. Rogue Zentraedi activity was still significant within the Oort Cloud and the Kuiper Belt- frequently venturing into the Sol system as far as the great asteroid belt that orbited the sun between the paths of Mars and Jupiter.

As a result of what Intelligence interpreted to being "in-fighting" between surviving commanders, these units had not yet coalesced into anything as significant as what might have once been classified as a Zentraedi battle group or even a task force. As a result, the likelihood of full-scale fleet action was minimal.

What had been predicted as to be more likely, and whose prediction had proven valid, was the probability of sudden and intense encounters between small numbers of vessels within the relative confines of the Sol System.

In this combat arena, superior sensory systems, combat control systems and practices, and specialized weapons were a greater advantage than the raw destructive power wielded by Zentraedi warships. It was along this concept of operations that the _Stratford_ Class frigate had been designed.

Ultra-sensitive passive sensors, a low EMS emission drive system and the full range of the latest guided weapons allowed the smaller frigate to stealthily stalk and then strike at the moment of its choosing the larger foe. It was no less than an embodiment of the Biblical David and Goliath story- only played out at ranges of tens of thousands of kilometers and with far deadlier weapons than stone slings.

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ had over the period of her short service life (this, her fourth patrol) justified the David analogy.

Below the UE colors and her hull number, FG-227, on the raked conning tower of her superstructure that sat three-quarters astern on her predominantly boxy hull softened only by the gentle curving of corners and edges that might otherwise produce sensor-reflective junctions were emblazoned seven Zentraedi imperial chevrons.

A _Salan_ Class scout, and an impressive six _Thuverl Salan_ Class destroyers- the mainstay of the Zentraedi fleet- were represented proudly by these markings. _Samuels_ also wore with no less pride the signs of scars from each patrol that did not easily vanish even with the mending or replacement of hull plates and the application of sensor-aborbant laminant still roughly referred to as "paint" in casual conversation. She had her scars and had shed her blood to be both a combat-effective and a proud ship in the growing REF Fleet.

Commander Lauren Devereaux could not see the seven chevrons that adorned her command's tower as testimony to her battle history from inside the captain's bridge high over the main deck- but she was satisfied that _Samuels_ would wear two more by the time she saw open space again.

Two Zentraedi destroyers in exchange for another three battle scars and regrettably the blood of seventeen crew- but overall a fair trade in Devereaux's mind.

Losing men and women under one's command was never easy, nor did it grow easier Devereaux was finding- but it was an unpleasant risk of the business and a heightened risk if one had resolved to pursue that business aggressively.

There was no question that CDR Devereaux chose to conduct "business" aggressively, as was commonly known and made apparent to the crew. _Gordon P. Samuels_ had not been officially commissioned for an hour, and Devereaux not yet out of her dress whites from the ceremony when she had appeared in Crew's #1 Mess with a bucket of black paint and a brush. With genuine curiosity both officer and enlisted had watched as carefully and with notable artistic skill Devereaux had painted by free-hand in striking script the famous quotation by John Paul Jones:

"I do not wish to command any ship that cannot sail fast, for I intend to go in harm's way-."

Many, both officers and enlisted, had taken Devereaux's action to be the obligatory bravado of a commander buttressing the courage of her crew with inflated allusions to her own.

Many officers and enlisted had quickly learned themselves to be mistaken.

The first prey to find its way in to the sights of CDR Lauren Devereaux had been a battle-worn, but nonetheless _battle-worthy_ , Zentraedi destroyer skirting the interior of the Kuiper Belt.

Its sensor effectiveness dulled by the drifting and tumbling ice and rock of the belt, and its commander wrongly convinced that the clutter would similarly conceal his vessel, the destroyer and its commander had showed no signs of being aware of the _Samuels'_ presence from the moment that first contact was logged until Devereaux announced herself twelve hours later with a spread of four Mk-4 Pegasus anti-ship missiles at a range of just under forty-thousand kilometers.

Devereaux's _announcement_ had made an impression.

Two of _Samuels'_ weapons had been destroyed on the run to target by debris large enough to overcome the deflector field of the Mk-4s running at sub-light speeds.

Two had not.

The surviving two Pegasus ASMs found their mark and delivered their high-explosive, thermobaric warheads deep and true into the armored hull of the Zentraedi destroyer. Though ghastly as the warheads burst compartments within the alien warship's tough outer shell, the missiles did not deal an immediate death blow. Rather, the attack roused into action a giant many times larger than the hunter itself.

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ had found herself suddenly relying on her speed and maneuverability as a still-viable Zentraedi vessel brought all of the firepower it could bring to bear on her with remarkable resilience and ferocity.

Having slipped into the sensor-hash provided by the Kuiper Belt, the new officers and crew of the _Gordon P. Samuels_ would have happily considered the engagement a success at having damaged a Zentraedi warship.

Commander Devereaux had had other ideas though and was to show her subordinates that she was a disciple of Jones in more than words.

Disengaging from the initial melee with the Zentraedi destroyer had taken a number of minutes. Reacquiring it and working into a favorable striking position without tearing the _Samuels_ to pieces in the grinder of space debris that both adversaries were determined to use as screen took over thirty hours.

The kill ultimately came at thirty-two hours after second contact- a long time for any crew to be at battle stations and long enough to firmly cement in the minds of the crew of the _Gordon P. Samuels_ exactly what breed of skipper led them.

This episode, and the eight others remarkably like it in the details related to CDR Devereaux's determination to make the kill were now matters of record. Tactical analysts and historians could scrutinize means and methods to their hearts' content if the exploits of the _Gordon P. Samuels_ were ever remembered.

Devereaux had never shown any signs of concern over the matter, or of caring.

She had business to attend to.

Specifically, Commander Lauren Devereaux had a ship to put into dock for repairs, to turn around, and to take out again as quickly as Fleet would issue her the orders.

And during all these activities she wanted as badly to work in time for what made the fighting an imperative for her.

"Approaching center buoy.", said the navigator indicating the ship's position relative to the spacedock's intentionally most commonly used reference point, "Bearing zero-zero-five relative, range two thousand meters and closing. Velocity steady at one hundred meters per second."

The harbor pilot, operating from inside a control room in the facility's traffic control center monitored the _Samuels'_ progress remotely and performed helm functions in cooperation with the ship's autopilot. The frigate's crew could still wrest control of their vessel easily from the outside command in cases of emergency, but the intricate and delicate act of bringing the ship in to port was generally trusted to the specialist in traffic control and the tug captains.

" _Samuels,_ engaging braking thrusters to slow to fifty meters per second.", ordered the harbor pilot as he executed, "Stand by to come left fifty degrees."

"Slowing to fifty meters per second-. Standing by to alter course minus fifty and maintain level.", confirmed the navigator from his holographic chart table to the rear of the captain's bridge, "Passing spacedock center buoy low to starboard on my mark-…. Mark."

Commander Devereaux glanced several points off the protruding fixed sensor masts of the port bow to a series of vessel slips anchored to a structure protruding from the spacedock wall that was clearly not a part of The Factory's original design configuration. The ordinance handling wharf with two operating terminals and a third due to come on line in just under a month could handle up to thirty-six warships at a time depending on their class and was the last stop for all before heading out into space. It was also the first upon returning from patrol.

While the original design of all Robotech Factories set down by The Masters intended that all supply and provisioning of vessels take place in their berths scattered about the interior area of the spacedock, the design and process analysts of the GS-95's human captors found flaw in this "one-stop, full service" approach. The spread of munitions throughout the facility required multiple control and safety points and introduced more potential hazards in the transport and handling of munitions from point to point.

Centralizing the handling and storage of ordinance to a single wharf and its supporting storage areas burrowed deep into the solid rock of the asteroid that the GS-95 was built into allowed for better control over the most hazardous aspect of supplying the ships of the Fleet. Every missile, mine, or cannon round that found its way into an REF warship's magazines passed at one time or another through the handling process of the ordinance wharf. Only the weapons and ammunition in the ship's small arms lockers and the officers' sidearms were excluded from this rule.

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ would put in to the ordinance handling wharf in minutes and the orderly and efficient off-loading her munitions would take place accounting for her remaining inventory to the round.

CDR Devereaux was always quietly pleased that the off-loading process for her command was normally a relatively short one. Ordinance was issued to her with the intent that it be used, and she was only too happy to oblige.

Nothing was more distasteful than returning from a combat patrol with full magazines.

The ship would then travel across the spacedock again to the repair yard where her wounds would be mended, routine maintenance and upgrades conducted, and her status returned to "combat ready". This alone would take between fourteen and twenty days depending on the repair yard's workload and how the _Samuels_ fit into the order of priority.

She would then be moved to a berth to await reprovisioning and orders from Fleet to go out on patrol again. Perhaps up to a month _Samuels_ could expect a respite from action, and as hard-charging as Devereaux liked to be- this too was fine by her.

She ran her ship hard and her crew harder, and in the same way that the _Samuels_ required time in the repair yards to get back into full fighting form, her crew needed time with family and loved ones- or at least away from action- to recollect and enter the fight sharp again.

Certainly, there would be training and official duties for all to keep them in step with the modifications that would be made aboard their ship even while they were away from it- but there would also be leave and a time to unwind.

Best of all, to Devereaux's way of thinking, was that all of this would take place during the holiday season- the closing days of Chanukah, Christmas, and of course New Years that also served for The United Earth as Unification Day.

Regardless of religious affiliations, a celebration could be looked forward to by all.

"Captain-.", said the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Mitch Petersen, who had edged up beside his superior without her noticing even though he stood a full head's height over her, "-TAO reports all long-range sensor systems are powered down and secure for docking, CIC is secure as well. Sensor and fire control logs have been transferred for submission with your log to Fleet, ma'am."

Devereaux nodded, "Thank you, XO-. Do you have your travel arrangements lined up to get you home, Pete?"

Petersen relaxed his duty persona slightly at Devereaux's inquiry and leaned against the bulkhead under the viewport they were both looking out of. The ship wouldn't be into the ordinance handling wharf for several more minutes so there was time for a few brief pleasantries.

"Assuming all goes well here, I should be on a planet-bound shuttle in eighteen hours.", the executive officer said hopefully, "With any luck, I'll be putting the final ornaments on the tree with the kids this time tomorrow. And you? I'm guessing Ron and your girls didn't try to come up this time to see us in?"

Devereaux shook her head, "No, not this time of the year. With the holidays, all the personnel moving on and off station, not to mention all of the things going on at home- it just wasn't practical. I'm hoping to be back in Portland by Christmas morning though- late Christmas Eve if I'm lucky."

"Either way, it'll be nice.", Petersen observed, "A better Christmas than some of these poor bastards will have anyway-."

Devereaux followed the XO's gaze across the spacedock to where frigates, corvettes, and even an REF-refitted _Thuverl Salan_ Class Zentraedi destroyer were in the process of being maneuvered out of their slips by harbor tugs. They would soon pull up to the ordinance handling wharf for arming, and then it would be out for patrol.

A lousy deal during the holidays, no matter how _gung-ho_ the crew.

There were no "perfect" lives in the new world.

No one- or at least _very_ few- lived without some kind of want or depravation.

And while those actively on military duty went to bed sheltered and with food in their bellies, there were the sacrifices of being away from home for extended periods. Whether it was a dire situation at home or simply not being there for the holidays- it was often the separation from loved ones that was the hardest.

Neither Devereaux nor her crew had drawn the short straw this time though, and morale despite a grueling patrol was good overall coming into port.

For the captain though, an unpleasant duty times seventeen still stood between her and the smell of a freshly cut evergreen at home.

She would have to call the families of those in her command who would not be coming home for the holidays.

Telegrams had already been sent by the Minister of Defense offering "deep, heartfelt sorrow" for the loss of the loved one and gratitude on behalf of all of the peoples of The United Earth- but Devereaux felt obliged to call or write herself to explain what a scripted, mass-generated form message could not.

Sometimes the calls went well- parents, or spouses expressing their appreciation for the simple act of the call and the solemn satisfaction they found in hearing and knowing from someone who had been "there" that the loved one had died in execution of their duties.

Other times- the calls did not go well. Sometimes, Devereaux had to deliver her well-rehearsed words to hateful curses, or even worse- to indignant silence. She had even received letters from time to time, dripping with venom for losses that a loved one could not accept. The worst had been an envelope Devereaux had received with no return address containing only a tattered photo of a large family of happy and smiling faces that she did not recognize- and with a figure who was near the center of the shot cut out crudely with scissors.

That one had stayed with Devereaux.

It was a painful part of command- one that the Services did not advertise in recruiting pamphlets or commercials.

It was something that Devereaux had learned to use to her advantage in executing _her_ duties though. She had learned to use it to keep herself sharp.

Devereaux would muscle through it and force herself to make the calls knowing that the reward of Christmas lay just beyond.

Steel one's self as one often had to, even the toughest still needed a "carrot". The world had an ample supply of ugliness that could destroy a person from the inside out if it was allowed to, leaving them like the caricature of an emotional burn-out in a Hemingway story.

Devereaux would do what was required of her and then go home to enjoy the holiday season, neither looking back nor apologizing for either.

"Now hear this-.", came the voice of the chief of the watch over the ship's speakers, "All hands secure from mooring stations. Ordinance details perform your pre-offload checks and detail captains make report to the bridge."

Petty Officer Orson Cobb paid only minimal attention to the announcement as it had no bearing on him. His focus remained on cramming the few remaining personal possessions that had occupied his locker and the storage compartment beneath the mattress of his bunk into his sea bag.

Packing his personal effects in preparing to disembark always seemed to present a greater challenge than what he experienced in packing to come aboard. Aboard ship and away from the post exchange, it was nearly impossible to acquire enough "new" possessions to make a difference in the volume of things that needed to fit into a standard-issue duffle. However, like at the end of every patrol, Cobb found that no matter how neatly he folded or how he pressed- his sea bag just did not want to accept all of his belongings.

With a sigh of exasperation, the young man jerked the duffle off his bunk- the top in the small cabin's stack of three- and leaned against the nearest frame for support. Holding either side of the bag opening in a freckled hand, he placed his foot atop the neat arrangement of contents and pushed until he was sure the bottom of the bag would come out.

It didn't, and with a few more strategic pushes, the densely packed duffle surrendered just a little more space.

Cobb had not felt the slight bump of the _Samuels_ meeting the mooring posts at the ordinance handling slip, or the tremor that always ran through the deck as the internal and external interlocks took hold. His focus had been solely on squaring his things and his personal space away so that when the moment came he could be released without delay.

It occurred to the Sensorman 1st Class at that moment that his eagerness to pack in order to depart from the confines of the ship for shore leave may have been suspiciously proportionate to his inability to do so. While life aboard an REF warship was filled around the clock with duties and training, the inevitable tedium and boredom eventually got to all to some degree.

That led to pranks.

Some pranks were more creative than others.

In his time aboard _Gordon P. Samuels_ Cobb had participated in a few "classics" himself. Sneaking into the cabin of a shipmate while he was in the shower of the berthing cluster to replace his shoes with a pair that was half a size smaller just before he went on duty, or the timeless favorite of squeezing out half the contents of someone's toothpaste tube to replace it with the similarly colored and scented hemorrhoid cream. Awaiting a reaction, or the victim's attempt to stifle a reaction to these was a time-honored use of what little idle time one had aboard ship.

One of the most creative pranks Cobb had seen personally had been perpetrated by a senior master chief who had made the transition to space duty with the REF from his sea-faring origins in the British Royal Navy. A true "old salt" in every sense of the word, this NCO had acquired great skill with a thread and needle as was a Royal Navy tradition.

With great glee, Cobb and half a dozen other residents of the berthing cluster had watched as this senior master chief had sewn the edges of a junior NCO's bed linens and blanket into the underside of his mattress- making the tidy manner in which the man made his bunk after each use somewhat more permanent than he wanted.

This prank, foremost in his mind, had almost made Cobb check the seams of his duffle to see if they had _maybe_ been taken in a little to reduce the capacity of his bag. The fact that he was able to pack the few remaining items on his bunk and then clasp the top shut allowed him to complete his task without giving in to paranoia though.

No sooner had Cobb passed the duffle's metal ring through the three eyelets of the bag's cuff and snapped the strap clasp into place than a dull, twin _thud_ sounded through the door that then slid open. A young black man also with the stripes and rockers of a petty officer leaned in through the opening speaking as he entered-.

"Opie, we're late in sick bay in five-."

The unexpected entrance of Petty Officer Thatcher gave Cobb a start in its suddenness and in the focus he had directed toward the packing of his things. Thatcher was a Sensorman 1 like Cobb, and also like the resident of the cabin had the primary occupation of a "Tracker Lead".

With four enlisted subordinates a tracker team spent their primary duty watches crammed into the sensor shack of the CIC with eyes glued to monitor displays providing human interpretation and filtration of the EM signals picked up by the ship's sensors. Interpretive skill, experience, and a healthy dose of intuition allowed Tracker Leads to advise the Sensor Officer and the Tactical Actions Officer to maintain a clear picture of the spherical space around the _Samuels_ and provide the CO with good situational awareness.

"-You skinnin' the anaconda or something-?", Thatcher asked, pausing mid-step two paces into the small space.

Cobb realized at once that his efforts in battling his duffle had left him flushed and sweating, a condition made more obvious by his pale complexion. Tracker Leads also had to possess the qualities of confidence that allowed them to call out a hunch over the numerous other crucial activities that went on in CIC at any given time- or in other situations barge-in with little warning.

Sometimes it had unforeseen consequences to say the least.

"No-.", Cobb replied trying not to sound too emphatic in his plea of innocence which in the circumstances would have marked him as guilty, "-Just trying to finish packing, Thatch-."

Thatcher looked with puzzlement at the duffle that had been sealed a moment before his entry, "Yeah, whatever-. Anyway, wash the lucky hand and let's get going. Mascell is supervising the inventory and box-up, and you know how she is-."

Cobb suddenly understood Thatcher's rush.

Pharmacist's Mate Mascell was a dark-haired beauty that the male portion of the crew enjoyed joking had fallen right off the Devil's own swimsuit calendar. They joked about it as visits to sick bay in which examination or treatment was performed by Mascell were analogous to visiting one of the circles of the underworld.

Those crew who actually _served_ under Mascell did not have to joke- as they were far too certain.

Mascell was a skilled practitioner of the medical sciences though and no amount of joking ever dared contest that. Her unflinching and strict manner had prevented more than one serious medical incident from becoming an emergency, and all recognized it with respect. The way she was allowed her to be more efficient at her job, mostly by offsetting the normal flirtation that her attractiveness might have normally spawned in a crew of mostly young men.

Maybe this was why she was the way she was, or maybe it was just a coincidence.

Who could say?

What Cobb could say was that he did not want to be late for his duty related to coming into port- running inventory on non-perishable medical supplies and preparing them to either be put back into ship's stores or offloaded for replacement.

Tardiness to this detail by even a few minutes could result in hours of extra duties under PM Mascell's personal and unblinking scrutiny.

"Let's not keep the dragon-lady waiting-."

A ship putting in for refit and overhaul of major systems, machinery, and equipment was a more extensive process than when a vessel was expected to make quick repair and turn-around for her next patrol.

As Thatcher and Cobb moved forward through the passageways past ship's administration that was nestled between the petty officers' berthing area and #2 Crew's Mess the distinction and which mode the _Samuels_ was engaged in became obvious.

Ship's files and documents on hard copy were being boxed and sealed for transfer to some cramped records storeroom "ashore". Though the records generated aboard ship were initially created and were stored electronically, hard copy was always kept for a prescribed period of time for purposes of redundancy.

Yomen and a small, select group of enlisted participated in this activity and would be responsible for maintaining constant chain of custody over the files detailing everything from personnel actions to consumption of the ship's consumables until the shore-side records division signed off on their receipt.

Activity in #2 Crew's Mess was no less meticulous and certainly more labor intensive. Cooks and cook's mates oversaw the emptying and inventorying of the mess's ready-use stores that were handed up by box and even individual can in some cases from the dry stores lockers located under flush hatches in the deck. Frozen and the now substantially reduced fresh stores would be off-loaded last. A small detail was even assigned to verifying the mess's inventory of serving trays, drinking vessels, and eating utensils before it would be locked away in shipboard storage. All the while food preparation areas, serving lines, and even the mess tables and benches were being scrubbed to a near surgically-clean state.

To the unindoctrinated details like the securing of #2 Crew's Mess may have seemed excessive for putting the ship in to dock, but as all things that were done aboard it served a specific purpose.

Cooking and eating utensils left unsecured could float free if the ship's artificial gravity should be deactivated or fail during repairs and then find their way into areas where their presence could cause damage. Likewise, kitchen spaces or eating surfaces left unlearned posed the potential hazard of fire when pressure hull integrity was tested by overpressurizing the hull- a state in which a flash fire required only an ignition source and a small amount of fuel. At the very least, uncleaned surfaces left unattended posed the potential fore illness later when the facilities came into use again- illness that could spread rapidly through a crew.

Every duty had a purpose and every crewman had a duty in putting _Gordon P. Samuels_ into dock, which was mainly why Petty Officers Thatcher and Cobb were unperturbed by the dense movement of crew through the passages as they hurried to attend to theirs.

"You're just heading home for Christmas then?", Thatcher asked as he did the "stoop & step" through a knee-knocker hatch in the corridor frame just forward of the emergency gear locker beyond #2 Crew's Mess. Unlike the larger vessels in the fleet, many of the _Samuels'_ airtight hatches were manually operated and closed in hatchways that no adult could walk through standing upright. The small openings were something that one got used to, but were also the cause of numerous head contusions and tirp-and-fall accidents among the newer members of the crew.

 _Black and blue shows that you're new-_ or so the saying went.

Cobb being slightly shorter than Thatcher followed him easily through the knee-knocker and made an immediate right into the ladder well that spanned all of the ship's main decks.

"St Paul for Christmas-.", Cobb replied as he descended the steep stairway passing a steady stream of enlisted coming the other way, "-Though I'll bet my uncle and brothers already cut a tree-."

"They lifted the ban on unauthorized tree harvesting in your sector?", Thatcher asked in surprise. There were still areas of the planet where the intentional destruction of trees was prosecuted almost as severely as violence against people or destruction of crops or livestock.

"A local ordinance went on the books last October saying that you could plant and harvest your own trees _if_ at the same time you planted two that would stay for every one you cut down- _and_ you have to have the local environmental reclamation officer sign off on the fact that the two you're leaving up are viable. All that shit for a Christmas tree-. Ain't it a kick in the butt though?"

"Yeah-.", Thatcher agreed as he led the way out of the ladder well and onto the corridor leading forward, "Millions of people still living without electricity and starving or freezing to death in some places and they've got a Fed who has to sign off on a Christmas tree!"

"Almost makes me want to go Jewish.", Cobb muttered as acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

"Really?"

"No, I love bacon too much.", Cobb said stepping through another knee-knocker behind Thatcher, "-And at some point before New Year's I've got to expert up on the new ASP narrow-band analyzer and database system and qualify or the lieutenant will have my ass when I come back aboard."

"Me too.", Thatcher sympathized, "It's gonna be rough squeezing that bookwork in between rum punches on the beach, but-."

"You're not going to spend Christmas with your mom, Thatch?", Cobb asked scornfully, "That's cold!"

"No- Ithaca, New York is _cold_ -.", Thatcher corrected as the detail assigned to securing sick bay came into sight working ahead, " _Cuba_ is _warm._ That's where she's meeting me for Christmas. I'm studying on the beach and will slip on my utilities long enough to qualify on the new ASP software at Guantanamo."

Cobb laughed, "Good luck on that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That means you're worse than me, Thatch.", Cobb said with a hint of admission, "The only thing you'll be studying on the beach is _Cuban_ _ass_."

Thatcher shrugged his guilt, "Well, that too. Ma'll keep me on task at least some of the time. Anyway, it was her idea."

"Cuba? How'd she get travel authorization anyway?"

"A dude she knows on the reconstruction board also signs off on travel vouchers for the area's civilian travel authority. It was a favor she called in."

Cobb shook his head and with a snicker said, "I _won't_ ask-."

Thatcher stopped, turned, and threatened with a balled fist, " _Hey,that's my Ma' now-._ "

Cobb raised his hands defensively, "Nothin' meant by it-."

Pharmacist's Mate Mascell stood inside of the infirmary processing room with a clipboard in hand and a barcode scanner in a pouch at her hip looking like a sheriff in a Western. Every bandage, suture, and pill was to be accounted for and all working the detail knew that Mascell was absolutely the right NCO to accomplish the task.

Boxes and crates of general medical supplies were quickly accumulating against the bulkheads and those whose seals were not broken were being scanned for return to general inventory by crewmen carrying scanner guns like the one Mascell wore Peacemaker-like. She would oversee the emptying of the ship's pharmacy and drug locker later with a smaller chosen group before reporting to the ship's surgeon that all was in order.

The activity in sick bay being constant as it was, Thatcher and Cobb approached the PM with the expectation of having to announce their arrival and request tasking. It was that much more of a surprise therefore that without looking up from her clipboard she noted their arrival.

"Problems finding sick bay?"

"No ma'am.", Thatcher replied, "Right where it's always been."

"Then you have another reason for being late?", Mascell asked scratching down notes on the electronic clipboard with an inkless pen.

"Ma'am, we're not-.", Cobb began to protest.

Mascell's arm extended and a finger pointed to the chronometer that was mounted on the bulkhead.

The two sensormen had been due to report at 0830Z, the chronometer cruelly reported "0830:27".

" _Crap-._ ", escaped Cobb's lips softly as he understood.

"Hope you boys didn't have any place to be in a rush.", Mascell said flatly, "There's a heap of opened stores to be gone through."

Christmas trees, St. Paul, Cuba and rum punch for that matter was going to be a little longer in coming.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

First light was on its way, and soon thereafter would come dawn.

Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson knew this because his wristwatch had told him some time ago and despite the thick of the woodland, the steady blow of fine snow, and heavy cloak of clouds that draped the Scottish landscape he knew it had to be coming.

More importantly, with the oncoming day would be the final push back to RTC 32 following the final basic land navigation and survival exercise in the training regiment that another recruit in Training Platoon 6045 had cleverly dubbed "The Frostbite March".

It actually hadn't been as bad as Andy had dreaded it to be.

Forty-something hours before following a breakfast in the mess that had been somewhat better than most, the recruits of the platoon had assembled in a classroom to receive a briefing on the training event from Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae before moving right into it.

True to O'Shae's blunt and paternally abrasive explanation, the recruits had been put onto trucks, driven out some forty-five kilometers from the training center that had become home over the past three months, and dropped at intervals in the middle of nowhere with the field uniform on their backs, the most basic contents of a survival kit, a day's rations, a compass and a map.

The worst part, looking back at it now Andy thought, had been that moment when the open-bed transport truck had rolled away along what could only be described loosely as a fire road in the woods, over a small rise with a dozen sets of eyes still looking back at him as though never to see him again- and then vanishing into the cover of the trees.

And then there had been the silence and the feeling of utter isolation- a near panic as Andy had realized that for the first time in recent memeory he did not have five people within arm's length at all times.

Andy had stood on the fire road for God-only-knew how long hearing only the groan of trees around him in the light wind and the far-off call of hearty woodland birds before the isolated feeling passed and recollection of numerous classroom instructions and field exercises took hold.

The map and compass came out and a quick survey of the area found identifiable landmarks that provided the recruit trainee a rough position on the map he carried- and with that position a direction to travel in order to reach the clearly marked objective of RTC 32.

Southwest.

Andy had strode into the woods remembering to find and hold a pace that he could maintain without exhausting or overexerting and sweating himself, and at the rate he found to be comfortable it seemed as though he could conceivably push on through the night and be back on post by mid-morning the next day.

That illusion had lasted all of ten minutes before the woodland grew thick and the peaks of distant hills that Andy had set as his visible bearing landmarks vanished from sight. The relatively open woodland floor with its soft bed of fallen leaves and pine needle that had skirted the fire road quickly closed up into dense thicket over broken and irregular ground. Andy had found himself keeping his compass in hand and checking at ever-increasing intervals just to assure himself that he was traveling southwest and not in circles.

He had suffered more than one panic moment when his estimation of distance traveled and direction did not yield landmarks like streams at the times he expected to come across them.

By the time the light began to weaken that afternoon and everything that Andy had been taught told him that he had to prepare a place to shelter for the night, it was clear he would not be walking into Falkirk RTC anytime the next morning, or the next afternoon for that matter.

That night, by the quickly dying embers of a small fire that had heated stones that were _supposed_ to keep him warm through the night- Andy lay on a bumpy, uneven bed of pine boughs, wrapped in a rain poncho stuffed with dry leaves and pine needles gathered from under trees for insulation. As he drifted quickly off to an uneasy sleep shivering, his belly grumbling with only a few bites of his rations eaten to satiate it, Cedric's words from months ago rang as true to him as they had almost every day:

 _"You're in it now, Andy Johnson-."_

The next morning, Andy had awaken- shivering- and in the dull, rising light things seemed almost as bleak as they had the night before. Per training though, Andy had risen stiffly from his mattress of branches and had warmed himself with a bit of stretching and light calisthenics. Breakfast was a few more bites of the contents of the MRE he had been provided, and then it was time to pack up and go.

The process of gathering his possessions had taken all of twenty seconds, during which Andy had noticed the dew collected on the low-hanging branches of the trees around him. A cloth in his survival kit was easily saturated with passes over the branch and inside of fifteen minutes its wetting and wringing allowed him to fill the small, half-liter canteen he had been provided.

By noon things had started to look decidedly up for Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson, even though the low-hanging, omnipresent clouds so typical of winter in The Isles had taken on the smell of snow.

One more night and then back to the relative comfort of a barracks, bad military food, and all of the verbal abuse one could hope for from O'Shae. At the moment of the thought, it seemed a comparative luxury to Andy whose traveling companions of damp cold and persistent hunger stayed faithfully with him on his romp through the woodlands.

Then Andy was suddenly aware that the slight discomforts he was feeling were not his only company.

The sensation was peculiar at first- that ominous race of chill along the spine that most often hit one in a dark basement or attic, and the perception that one was being watched. Then the mind took over, and Andy's mind went to the worst place first- _wolf._

Wolf or feral dog, it didn't matter to Andy as either was an irrational fear that he had had since a dog had played a little too roughly with him as a small child forming one of his earliest memories.

Andy was sure it was a wolf, its presence marked by the crunching of leaves just beyond sight over a rise. _It was a wolf-_ and suddenly the small, razor-sharp blade of the all-in-one tool that had been part of his issued supplies for the exercise seemed very insignificant to Andy Johnson.

It was relief enough to discover ten breathless seconds later that it was _not_ a wolf stalking him over the rise in the woods.

It was a greater pleasure when the field uniform-clad figure that did appear caught sight of Andy with a glint of hazel eyes followed by the flash of a smile that said that she too was happy to see another person- and to Andy's grasp of the moment, _particularly_ him.

Recruit Trainee Pamela Dunn had had an appeal to Andy from the very first day of training months earlier with an exchange of sordid remarks about whose bunk was who's in their stack- and her appeal had only grown from there.

Andy was _very_ happy to see Pamela in that unrealistic and carnally optimistic way that young adolescent men had.

Brief greetings and a quick discussion had decided that the exercise had not expressly forbid the traveling of recruit trainees in pairs or groups, but only diminished the possibility by separating all of the participants at the onset of their long march home. Besides, as they neared the RTC, they _could_ separate again to reach the objective with the appearance of having done it alone.

–And hadn't the core lesson of the modest survival training they had received been to take every advantage when presented with one?

It had been decided.

The second night spent in the shelter given by two rain ponchos and a fallen tree, despite a light snowfall that had begun just after dark had been warmer.

 _Much_ warmer.

"Well-.", Andy said with snow softly pelting the crude shelter he'd shared all night through sleep and several bouts of activity, "-Should we be on our way or should we order room service and stay in awhile?"

Pamela, who Andy had known to be awake for some time gave him a squeeze about the ribs and replied in a dreamy, "morning after" voice, "-I thought _you_ were going to bring me breakfast in bed-."

In the dark, Andy found her forehead to kiss it, "Haven't I done enough for you already?"

Pamela drew just far enough away to adjust the fit of her trousers and to pull tight again the nylon belt around her waist, " _I_ seem to remember a _cooperative_ effort in that area."

Andy's fingers traced long-coveted curves that were still desirable despite the several layers of clothing that separated the toucher from the touched, " _Several_ cooperative activities, thank you, love-."

Dunn gave something between a giggle and a snicker, "You've got energy- I'll give you that-. Energy isn't much without _direction_ though-."

Andy wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel as taken aback as he did, but managed, "Well at least I have a competent teacher-."

"Competent?", Dunn replied, pausing in her redressing activities, " _Just_ competent? I should flog you for that!"

Andy laughed, finding Dunn's slim waist and pulling her again to him, "Well, if you want to start _advanced theory_ so soon, I'm game for it-!"

" _Oh for God's sake-! You're not going to have at it again are you?!"_

Both recruit trainees under the single shelter jolted at the voice that seemed within arm's length if not just outside of the ponchos that covered them. Andy wasn't sure if he was happy or more mortified at the thought that he recognized the voice.

"Cedric?"

"No, it's your mum and you've been a _right naughty_ li'l tadger!"

Dunn's face was already buried in her hands as if to keep out the unpleasant reality as Andy asked, "And just how long have you been-?"

"Long enough to know that _someone_ is a moaner."

Recruit Trainee Cattermole's response to the question directed at Cedric Collins was not improving Andy's outlook on the day.

"-Never pegged you as one of those."

" _Oh God-!"_ , Dunn exclaimed throwing aside the thin shelter of ponchos and stormed off beyond a cluster of fir trees with the indignant rage that only an embarrassed woman could muster and carry.

"Not the first time we're hearing that-.", Cattermole commented just loud enough to be heard as he emerged from under his own poncho and a pile of dry leaves two meters up the hill that partly formed the hollow and alongside the same tree Johnson and Dunn had sheltered beneath.

" _Piss off, Aunt Moggie!"_

"What's she on about?", Cedric asked emerging from his own cocoon beneath a tree at the rim of the hollow.

Now sitting upright and realizing that he was not in a state too far from undress, Andy surveyed his immediate surroundings and gratefully found only Colis and Cattermole sharing the immediate geography.

"You pick a hell of a time to announce yourselves, you two-."

Collins got unsteadily to his feet, a result of the stiffness of sleeping on uneven bedding for a second night.

"Well, I didn't even know you were there until after I'd tucked in.", Collins explained, gradually increasing his range of motion through trunk turns, "And I certainly didn't expect you were going to-."

Johnson raised a hand that halted his friend's sentence without an accompanying word.

"Fine-. Whatever.", Collins said stooping over gingerly to take up the poncho he'd wrapped himself in for the night, "-But really-. Shouldn't you have at least bought her dinner or something first? You know, some soft candlelight and music-."

Andy searched for Pamela out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be intent on disassembling their impromptu love nest, "Ceddie, I'm _really_ at the end with this-. And what's _your_ excuse?!"

The last question, directed to Cattermole whose body seemed to pop at every joint through a series of stretching bends, received the simple reply, "Oh- I'm a lecher."

Pamela Dunn exploded through the low boughs of the fir trees she had covered behind to collect herself and marched intently back to the fallen tree to take possession of her things again if not the remnants of her dignity.

"This just didn't happen-. Everyone understand? We're just going to pack up our kit, hike in the last few kliks to Falkirk for a spot of breakfast and a shower, and then we polish up for assembly to graduate-. And _that's all we're going to do or say- right?_ "

As though to confirm understanding between the three other recruit trainees, Dunn pointed a single finger, dagger-like at each saying, "We're clear then, eh? Or am I going to have three sets of bloke-dangles nestled in with my socks in my foot locker?"

Andy replied cautiously for himself and the others, "I think we're clear on that."

Pamela pulled back the tangle that was her hair to put it as neatly as could be managed into rubber band she had for the purpose and said with a lingering hint of menace, "Good. Let's go then."

"Just a second then-.", Cattermole said finding a broken section of fallen tree limb on the ground and then throwing it in calculated arc over the hill he had slept on. The bit of wood landed with a distinct thud that was answered with the rustle of leaves that came from some great thing being disturbed.

" _What?! What now?!"_

A moment later Recruit Trainee Fisher Kingsley tripped over the hilltop still heavily under the influence of sleep.

" _They ain' 'avin' a go a'it `gain, is they-?"_

Dunn made a guttural sound of disgust as she snatched her things from Andy and began to trudge heavily southwest toward Falkirk.

 **RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

Commander Anne Weitzel had not waken that morning with any expectation of meeting the RDF Military Chief of Staff, let alone being in his office twice in the same morning- but what her professionally honed intuition was telling her could not wait.

So certain was she of what she would have to tell the senior-most ranking officer in all of the United Earth's Robotech Defense Forces that she had not even paused for her normal custom of stepping into Brigadier General Shiloah's office to first run it by him for a sanity check.

There was no point on two counts:

First, she had crossed paths with him thirty paces outside of her new office that had once been his, and second there was no sanity check for the insane.

She had settled for explaining in brief her discovery in the walk from the Intelligence Annex over to the main headquarters building- an explanation that Shiloah took in without comment but with a sense of grave acceptance that grew with each step. Weitzel's theory and her rationale behind it required roughly the time it took to reach General Breetai's office, where his administrative aide asked no questions when the REF officer said that she had to speak with the MCS on a matter of the highest urgency.

Apparently her expression and that of the normally unflappable Shiloah were sufficient to validate her request.

"You need to breathe, Anne.", Shiloah said from where he stood looking ashen.

Weitzel, feeling the full weight of knowing as she had never felt before was unable to quit her pacing, but did manage to heed Shiloah's warning and draw breath.

"I'd say I was going to throw up, Ephraim- but I think my stomach has dropped too far for anything to make it out."

Shiloah said evenly with a tone that was as reassuring as a pat on the hand, "Just tell the Chief of Staff what you told me, and show him your initial data. Decisions on action are _his_. _Your_ part is to provide the best insight you can for him to make those decisions. Just make your pitch."

Weitzel nodded and forced herself to stop pacing. It was unbecoming of an officer she knew, and conveyed panic even if there was none. She did not want her words to be misconstrued as a knee-jerk reaction- this was far too important.

"And what do I have Ephraim?- I'm thinking about it now. I've got a handful of graphs and a crack-pot idea held together by a thin venire of otherwise unrelated intel scraps-."

Shiloah said calmly, "You have _the best information you can provide-._ Welcome to the Intelligence Fusion Division, Anne. Do you hate me yet for handing it off to you?"

Weitzel laughed, realizing that she was about to do nothing different than she had done a thousand times before with Shiloah. Only there was a practical difference between laying out a wild theory to the paternal Shiloah and pitching the same thoughts to the MCS.

"Not yet, but-."

"Commander, the General will see you now."

The administrative aide who had spoken to Weitzel opened the door to the MCS's office for her. Weitzel entered mustering every ounce of strength and directing it toward poise, but felt inwardly as though she expected to see the gallows waiting for her on the other side.

Of course, there was no gallows- only General Breetai sitting at his desk reviewing something on his computer monitor that Weitzel was not privileged to from her vantage point. Also standing nearby as though he was a fixture of the office like the various flags in their stands was Breetai's chief aide, Colonel Kalehahea.

The Zentraedi officer maintained his fixed gaze on the screen for the time it took to enter several keystrokes on his keyboard before turning his attention fully to Weitzel.

"You're early, Commander.", Breetai said folding his hands in his lap as he pushed away slightly from his desk, "-Which tells me that you have something. Your _color_ tells me that you have something of great importance. So, please- impart your knowledge."

The MCS's voice and expression were neutral, neither inviting nor discouraging.

Kalehahea, on the other hand, showed clear incredulity though Weitzel had not spoken a word on the main matter yet. Possibly it was the chief aide's self-assigned role to play the "bad cop", forcing those speaking to the General to clearly think out and refine what words passed their lips while allowing him to retain an air of accessibility.

It hardly mattered at that moment.

Weitzel drew a deep breath without exaggerating the act and risking the appearance of dramatics.

"General, sir, what I'm about to say is based on only the most preliminary data, but the possible implications are dire enough that it had to be brought to your attention immediately."

Breetai nodded, and leaned forward into the conversation placing his hands now squarely on his desk where together they occupied a good portion of the workspace.

"Caveat acknowledged, Commander. Out with it."

"General Breetai, I suspect an impending military event involving if not centered in The Control Zone of Brazil involving malcontent Zentraedi elements already present, and possibly if not probably rogue Zentraedi space units likely already operating within the Sol system-. –Sir."

Breetai blinked with the single eye left visible by the partial helmet he wore and a long moment passed breathlessly for Weitzel as she wasn't sure whether this first sign of comprehension would be followed by a roaring laugh or by an enraged, bellowing order to leave the officer's presence.

Much to Weitzel's relief, the Military Chief of Staff's response was neither.

He leaned back into his chair again and after a thoughtful moment asked calmly, "What would lead you to that bit of liberal speculation, Commander?"

Happy to at least have her foot in the door, Weitzel continued with the caution that a misspoken thought might damage her efforts.

"General, my statement is based on several elements coming out of a number of ongoing taskers. I will have to ask for your indulgence as I explain the connections which will require an amount of vision and a leap of faith-."

Something that might have been the foundations of a smile appeared thinly on Breetai's face as he said in reply, "Vision and a leap of faith are the primary reasons that I am sitting in this seat, Commander, and not still conducting military operations on behalf of The Robotech Masters. You have _a measure_ of indulgence. Proceed."

Weitzel went to the conference table at the side of the general's office and approached the controls to the holographic projection system.

"May, I sir?"

"Please-.", Breetai allowed.

Weitzel inserted a thumb drive into the terminal port and activated the system. Taking up the remote control she quickly accessed the files she had hastily prepared and projected the first image- a map of Brazil and Venezuela- into the air with the crisp detail allowed by laser light.

"General, drawing first from corroborating reports and intel from RDF, Ministry of Intelligence, and ASC intel division sources I give you the terrestrial element-."

"As you're aware from various intelligence briefings, General, the past ninety days in The Control Zone have shown malcontent activity that is almost uniformly agreed to be indicative of coordinated activity."

The map of Brazil and Venezuela took on the additional feature of localized red splotches appearing in the areas where violence had flared and malcontent activity had noticeably increased.  
"Early activity had been mostly high intensity, hard-target raids on military assets- bases, outposts, and supply depots where they were accessible. The net result, especially from the earliest of these raids, was the capture of a significant amount of military weaponry and material by malcontent elements. Attention of the malcontents then seemed to shift to the destabilization and occupation of civilian population centers, which was answered in turn by the RDF and ASC in the redeployment of combat units and support elements into these areas in order to reclaim and secure them-."

The broad splotches of red dissolved and were replaced by pinpoints of activity to which Weitzel had referred.

"Consensus had been that a new malcontent leader, Fral, was simply staging what amounted to little more than vengeance actions on these population centers to avenge the death of a slain malcontent leader and the damage caused to several downed cruisers that were under repair as his pet project."

"However, consensus- though not loudly spoken- also said that the scale and severity of the malcontent actions in the population centers was not consistent with the potential for violence that the malcontents posed in terms of numbers and available weaponry."

"They are _holding back_ , all agree- just enough activity to keep RDF and ASC units engaged over a broad area. Some attribute this to a new malcontent strategy of attrition, General, but I'm beginning to think otherwise-."

At the touch of a button on the control that Weitzel held the map scaled out to encompass all three of the American continents and showed in the same red dots areas where violence had escalated noticeably in the timeframe identified.

"The southwestern sector of North America, critical military facilities in Central and all throughout South America-. Hostile activity has risen just enough to require the application of more RDF and ASC resources while at the same time spreading them all over three continents."

Weitzel toggled to the next visual aide, a chart of the Sol system laid out in good detail in three dimensions, marking areas of recent contact with rogue Zentraedi vessels in relation to the planets and features of the system and their orbital paths.

"The extraterrestrial element now, General Breetai.", Weitzel continued, "You are also familiar with the nature of each of these encounters between REF and rogue Zentraedi elements, all within the Kuiper Belt."

"Almost without exception these encounters consisted of an REF unit happening across a Zentraedi unit, normally of the scout or destroyer class. Almost without fail, the Zentraedi units withdrew from the engagement if circumstances allowed without attempting to make battle- a highly unusual mode of operation for a Zentraedi commander, you know better than most. Fleet Intelligence has interpreted this as an escalation in rogue Zentraedi monitoring of REF unit activity within the system-."

Breetai raised his hand pausing Weitzel in her briefing and said heavily, "Commander Weitzel, while interesting in its coincidental nature, what you're showing me is nothing more than the same as what you were saying at the table this morning. There is nothing compelling here."

Weitzel felt the alternating hot and cold flashes of panic at being cut short before she had the ability to bring her thinking together. It was either that or early menopause, but under the circumstances she knew it to be the former.

"Yes sir, you are correct.", Weitzel admitted, "There is nothing new here, and nothing I have not already said, but allow me two more minutes of your time."

"Make it good, Commander.", Breetai allowed without being threatening.

"As soon as I had the raw log data from our satellite and ground monitoring stations filtered and sorted for what I was looking for- particularly coded transmissions that we could not decipher within a specific band- I just took a quick glance at the _volume_ of communications per twenty-four hour period over the past month. Here are some samples-."

The chart of the solar system vanished and was replaced by a graph showing numbers of intercepted transmissions on a given day with details shown on time periods during which the activity was most concentrated.

"This is one month ago, General. Seven hundred and fifty-three transmissions of varying lengths in a twenty-four hour period.

The chart refreshed, showing minor differences but remaining much the same.

"This is three weeks ago, a slight increase with a margin of error of plus or minus five percent of transmissions that may have been sorted incorrectly in compiling this data. –Now thirteen days ago."

The chart appeared with the volume of transmissions nearly doubling in both quantity and hourly density.

"And-.", Weitzel said with a tone that hinted at a thing of importance being on the verge of revelation, "Twelve days ago."

The next chart was a flat line indicating a sum of zero transmissions.

"Eleven days ago", Weitzel said, advancing to the next image that was exactly the same as the last.

"Ten."

No change.

"Nine… Eight…. Seven…."

Each successive chart remained a flat line

"The pieces do not fit together perfectly, I admit, General.", Weitzel ceded, "But look at it this way-. A little under four months ago a Zentraedi bandit on a track from well out into the Sol system was damaged by and REF intercept and went down _inside_ The Control Zone. The first of the coded transmissions that we are not able to decipeher and that furthermore are not even recognized by the Zentraedi communications systems we possess began within days of that downing."

"Within a month, a Zentraedi coalition that by all reckoning should have fractured into in-fighting with the death of its leader is not only more cohesive than ever, but actually beginning to show signs of coordinated and expanding activities even beyond The Control Zone."

"Within three months, though the underlying motivations are unclear- the malcontents are waging a guerilla war of regional conflicts that has two organized and well-supplied militaries scrambling to keep a lid on an entire continent. At the same time, surveillance from rogue forces operating nearby in our own space increases measurably."

"Then, just as we seem to be reaching a crescendo to the one fine link between marooned and roaming rogue Zentraedil- that link goes dead. Silenced completely as though communications silence was suddenly more desirable than the flow of communications back and forth."

"You're suggesting of course that a rogue Zentraedi element has managed to contact, influence, and coordinate the actions of marooned malcontents in preparation for some kind of coordinated action- and that we're looking at the prelude to that action now..", Breetai said, summing more succinctly what Weitzel was driving at than she had dared to.

"I understand the connection you're trying to draw-.", Breetai said, "-And lean as the underlying data is- my own suspicions are becoming aroused.

Weitzel felt a good bit of the weight she had carried into the MCS's office on her shoulders lift as she now clearly had his attention. She did dread the next obstacle that was coming- the inevitable "but" that she felt looming somewhere in words the general had not yet spoken.

"However, I am presented with a practical command concern even in the shadow of this suspicion.", Breetai said, delivering the "but" that Weitzel was in fear of, "I have a military under my command that numbers in the high tens of millions. A full forty percent of my forces have either begun leave for the Christian holidays, or soon will, to be followed on by another thirty percent who will have leave for Unification Day with the New Year-."

"To assume a more readied stance, Commander, even if it applies to only _one_ continent and the REF home defense elements- translates to essentially canceling or significantly reducing leave for _millions_ of personnel."

"You understand the devastating blow to morale this would have, do you not?"

"I do, General.", Weitzel said solemnly, "I understand that this theory presents you with a difficult decision, but-."

Breetai shook his head, "No, I don't think you realize, Commander- but it's not your job to. It's mine. And the decision is not a difficult one, just an unpleasant one. Mind you if your theory turns out to hold no air, it could be a _very_ unpleasant decision."

At the risk of speaking out of place, Weitzel pointed out, "Not as unpleasant though as if it does hold air, I'm afraid, General."

"Quite true, Commander.", the MCS said distantly, "Quite true. As any military operation has to have an objective, what I will need from you is a list of possible objectives that this _theoretical_ attack might be intended to achieve."

"Certainly sir, you'll have my best effort."

"On this, I expect nothing less.", Breetai said firmly.

"And when will you require this, sir?"

"You will present your initial thoughts in two hours, Commander.", Breetai informed Weitzel, causing her stomach to drop completely through the floor, "And be convincing- you'll have the ears and company of the Service Chiefs if not the President and his advisory staff."

"Very good, sir.", Weitzel said feeling that it was anything but.

"You're dismissed then.", Breetai said, "Return here in two hours- prepared."

"Yes sir.", Weitzel said before turning without further comment and departing noticeably more quickly than she had entered the office.

Breetai waited a moment before reaching over to the phone on his desk and opening the line with the hands-free speaker mode

Breetai's hand was scarcely free of the device before an aide was responding to his call.

"Yes, General?"

Breetai said heavily, "Please contact RDF quadrant and sector commands and the REF CNO and inform them that there will be a video conference in two and a half hours. Also contact the Executive Office Chief of Staff and request the President's attendance. First though, I want a directive flashed through all services, all commands to halt processing of personnel leave and travel actions pending more specific instructions that will be issued shortly. Do you have all of that?"

"Yes, General.", said the aide sounding concerned despite her best efforts to retain a dispassionate manner.

"Good. Please contact the Executive Office and request the President for me."

"Yes, General."

Breetai closed the line.

Colonel Kalehahea who had stood passively by during the entire exchange between Weitzel and his superior finally broke his silence in his struggle with disbelief.

"General, you really intend to change vector on the bulk of our military personnel, right before the holidays? -And on the hunch of an intelligence officer who hasn't been in her billet long enough for her promotion paperwork to go through the system?"

Breetai responded without offense as he knew his aide's questions were not a challenge to his orders but only a sanity check as to what was about to be done.

"Pate- I've said on many occasions that there are far too many rogue Zentraedi elements still active and viable within reach of the Sol System for us to feel truly secure."

"I also know that military inactivity and allowing defeat in battle to go unanswered is not in the Zentraedi nature."

"Whether individually or in groups, they're out there waiting for an opportunity to redeem themselves if only in their own minds. Perhaps one faction leader or another has finally achieved the mass he sees necessary to stage an operation-. Perhaps he has reached a critical state in his diminishing level of supplies that demands he either act or withdraw completely-. I cannot know this."

"What I know is that it has been far too long since we have seen significant activity in the Zentraedi that we know are operating very nearby, and there's no getting around the questions raised by these transmissions."

"Prudence demands mitigating action, Pate- even if it is an inconvenience."

Kalehahea nodded his agreement, "I wasn't arguing that, sir. Do you really think that there's a commander skulking around out there that thinks he has a shot at winning at an attack with odds that long though?"

Breetai looked seriously at his subordinate, "No, I don't. But I believe that there may be a commander out there who believes enough in The Warrior's Code that he finds death in vain revenge for defeat preferable to living with the shame of it. That breed of commander and those who would follow him are the kind who concern me the most."

"I see your point, sir."

"I'm sure you do, but not with the clarity I see it, Pate."

Kalehahea smirked darkly, "Don't be so sure, General-. Human history has seen that type as well."

Breetai thought on the statement for a moment and then admitted, "Yes, it has, hasn't it? A flaw common to both species. So, let's talk about what to do next. How far can we push a state of readiness without arousing alarm in the civilian population?"

Kalehahea thought on it for a moment, "Short of canceling leave and approved of pending leave actions, General, we can issue recall restrictions."

"Place vital personnel and units on twelve or six hour recall notice and place ready response units into a heightened state of preparedness by issuing orders for a mobilization exercise. We'll get grumbles that will come together to sound like a roar, but it will probably just come across like high command being unfeeling, granite assholes rather than indication of concern."

"That's about as far as we dare push it without raising alarm."

Breetai nodded, "I agree. Draft the orders. I'll sign them as soon as I have spoken with the President."

The phone on Breetai's desk buzzed to inform him that the moment of speaking with _his_ superior was at hand.

"Anne, you look as though you've seen your own ghost."

Weitzel snapped from her trance-like state that was carrying her on a direct line from General Breetai's private office to the outer office door. She had not noticed General Shiloah until he had spoken to her, and could have as easily continued on for some time before realizing that she was devoid of the company she had brought with her for her task.

"I may have, Ephraim-.",, Weitzel said trying to find some humor in the moment, "My _career's_ ghost is probably a little closer to the truth."

Shiloah opened the door for Weitzel as a gentlemanly act and despite his seniority in rank, "The job takes _chutzpah_ , Anne- but what is the old saying?- No risk, no reward."

Weitzel shook her head bleakly as the top office in the Robotech Defense Forces fell behind. Somehow, the air felt cooler the farther away it was.

"I'm not sure what the reward is, Ephraim. Being wrong right now feels a lot more appealing than being right. Oh, and I have a briefing to give in just under two hours-."

"To whom?", Shiloah asked.

" _Everyone._ ", Weitzel said, hearing the despair in her own voice, "-Or more accurately, just everyone with three or more stars-. Oh, and the President and probably his whole advisory staff. That's all."

Shiloah shrugged, " _Chutzpah_ , Anne. Remember _chutzpah._ Put together your facts, show how it supports your theory, and get ready for all hell to rain down on you. That's the job."

"Great-. And I thought the paperwork was distasteful."

" _That's_ the fun part now.", Shiloah said with the voice of experience.

"Ephraim?"

"Yes?"

"Do you own a ceremonial sword to go with your dress blues?"

"Yes-. Why?"

"I don't. I may need to borrow yours to fall on if this goes really south."

 **Edwards AFB, The Mojave Desert,**

 **Califonrnia**

There was something about intelligence briefings that Winters found tedious and annoying.

He had first felt the disdain for the practice during his RAF days and his first actions in The Gulf War. The distaste took its definitive form during The Global War and in that form had remained a constant and true companion ever since.

It was not the underlying concept of the intelligence briefing that Winters disliked. How could it be? One could not argue with a practice that was intended to provide the combatant with foreknowledge of the intentions or at least the _capabilities_ of those he was likely to encounter in the conduct of his mission.

What Winters could not stomach was the _prima donna_ aura that many senior intelligence officers exuded in their dealings with operators. It was not an exclusivist attitude Winters had determined- he had never known an intelligence officer to hold out on a critical piece of information.

No, it was the unspoken attitude that lay just beneath everything that was said.

It was the, _these are the most important words you will ever hear and you should revere my god-like benevolence for bestowing them upon you_ demeanor that rubbed Winters the wrong way.

Also, when things did not materialize the way the "all knowing" intelligence services predicted, Winters could not stomach how quickly the gears shifted and the party line became that of intelligence being an "imperfect art".

At least intelligence briefings did not wreak the way that hospitals did.

They tended to smell more like cow pastures.

Winters found intelligence briefings on Southern Cross capabilities no more appealing and normally less.

It seemed to the clipped-wing Valkyrie pilot that dedicating intelligence resources to spying on the military of less than a dozen Unification hold-outs was analogous to policing grade school playground bullies. In their time and element, they were a presence that had to be recognized and given their due attention- but in the grander, long-term vision they were a transient phenomenon.

–And weren't there Zentraedi to be looked after? About a _billion_ of them?

 _Let them bleed each other out-_ that had been Winters attitude, especially since he had gotten to know the ASC so much better.

The Southern Cross was a force gnashing at the bit to take the fight to the Zentraedi, _any_ Zentraedi, and the malcontents seemed more than willing to meet them head-to-head. Why not use that as the single stone to kill two birds?

Winters recalled echoes of conversations he had had in Brazil that seemed to ominously support that attitude.

Certainly though, the ASC could not quell the Zentraedi threat alone and despite the rants of their leadership, they were not at it alone. The RDF was there in force with as many boots on the ground and in most areas more.

And who was to say where these sudden technological advancements whose materialization was the focus of the day's briefing were coming from? Wasn't the bigger issue the greater role they would allow the ASC to play in theater?

Even this didn't matter.

The Zentraedi problem would be brought under control and then the independent states that fielded the ASC would begin to discover their differences. Like so many historical alliances of necessity, the ASC would eventually fall victim to its own success and implode for lack of a common threat to defend against.

If this was to be the ultimate outcome, Winters wasn't sure that he wouldn't drop a few helpful technological hints into the mail for the ASC high command.

As for the _hows_ of the sudden ASC achievements, Winters was sure that there would be generations of conspiracy theorists to churn out volumes of speculation. Political scientists and historians could be expected to do the same for assessing the effect on the story of the world.

Winters looked forward to reading what was written with a jaded eye and a cynical mind.

Someone with authority had decided though that the ASC warranted the time and treasure required to monitor them closely. Briefings such as these were the result and as a consequence had to be endured

Colonel Malcolm Ethan Malcolm (Winters had decided in a preoccupying thought that his parents must have had some obsessive compulsion for symmetry) the NORAMWEST ranking intelligence officer had made a point of tearing himself away from General Hume's command at Nellis to impart his knowledge of the subject on General Butler and his staff.

Outranking Wintersas he did, Winters of course had to put on his best mask of respect and pretend to listen carefully as the full bird crowed through a briefing that had quickly taken on the character of an out-loud reading of operation manuals- _three_ of them.

Much as the BBC had told Winters this morning and a UENN "talking head" had expanded upon later, the latest additions to the ASC inventory now going to the field were in essence a fighter (clearly a poor designation to anyone), an attack helicopter, and a hover tank that were all three also coincidentally transformable mecha.

Of the three new vehicles that the ASC was beating its chest about, the most innovative to Winters was what they had crudely named the "Veritech Hover Tank", or VHT-1 for its apparent mastery of the problems of magnetic levitation propulsion, or "Mag-Lev".

The RDF Army fielded a considerable force of main battle tanks that as a weapon system, despite the advent of faster and more viable mecha forms, had once again maintained a place of prominence in a modern fighting force. These main battle tanks retained a more classic appearance though to include the traditional track-drive system.

The VHT-1, at a glance and by Col Malcolm's interminable reporting had abandoned the caterpillar tracks for magnetic pads and accordingly, much greater speed. So impressive was the speed in the system configuration being called "transport mode" that the VHT-1 was now capable of outrunning its combat and logistical support elements at an impressive 160kmph.

Short-sightedness knew no limitations it seemed.

The promise that it could traverse open ground so quickly was offset greatly by the fact that the areas in which it was most likely to fight were not open. Also diminishing the impressiveness of the system was the fact that the monster of a main gun- a high-intensity ion cannon- could not be used in transport mode.

In tank mode, when the vehicle's admittedly fearsome firepower could be fully employed, it was a lumbering, bi-pedal thing not unlike a Valkyrie in Guardian mode- only lacking grace and agility.

What application the ASC saw for the VHT-1 over the RDF's Warrior battle tank was unclear. If its designers had one in mind, it was one on a battle field that did not require heavy firepower _and_ fast mobility simultaneously.

The airborne additions to the family of transformable mecha made slightly more sense to Winters.

The _Advanced Joint Attack Combat System_ (AJACS) Veritech Attack Helicopter had a sounder foundation of practical thought behind it- merging two prominent ASC operational needs into one airframe.

Clearly conceived to serve as close and lingering air support to ground units the AJACS's primary helicopter mode provided a large munitions carrying capacit across the platform's functional wing structures' multiple hard-points. Or, with its rotors stowed along a recessed dorsal compartment and with the craft functioning as an attack jet, the same munitions could be used in hit and run attacks against ground targets.

The Battloid form of the mecha, even more so than that of the more heavily armored Veritech Hover Tank, was more difficult to defend as a legitimate necessity.

Years before when the Valkyrie series had been only an outlandish idea in the initial stages of development Winters had been one of the voices of descent speaking against a three-form transformable fighter. Particularly the Battloid form he and others had argued intelligently was a configuration of the machine that surrendered almost every advantage that its advanced weapons systems and the airframe's remarkable agility had to offer.

Of course other schools of thought prevailed and the Valkyrie entered service with its three standard-setting configurations a well PR-promoted attribute.

Had the Battleoid ever been of real practical use?

Winters was still true to his camp of thought and could think of few if any combat scenarios in which he would want to expose his relatively lightly armored Valkyrie to fire with such a large target surface area and with a reduced capacity to fire back.

Still, the ASC had chosen to give the AJACS a Battloid form and with it all of the weaknesses therein. To Winters thinking this only showed that the ASC was deft at stealing ideas, but not necessarily sorting out the _good_ ones.

Admittedly though, and where the ASC did manage to step ahead of the RDF in terms of close air support was the fact that the AJACS was crewed by a _single_ pilot as opposed to the pilot and gunner required to operate the more conventional Aztec attack helicopter currently being fielded and continuously modified by the RDF. The same was true in comparing the AJACS' attack/bomber potential to the aging RDF A-9C "Adventurer II" that was crewed by a pilot and weapons systems officer.

To be candid and magnanimous, the ASC _had_ achieved in the AJACS something akin to cross-breeding a Hi-24 "Hind" and a Ferrari, merging their desirable attributes while reducing the number of lives risked per craft by one over its nearest RDF equivalents.

What was true of the AJACS in its clearer "form following function" design was also true of the Veritech "fighter" that the ASC had developed.

As a pilot of the Valkyrie, Winters was both appalled and offended that this smaller mecha was even allowed to stake claim to the term "Veritech". If it was at all related to the Valkyrie, it was a stubby, little runt of a cousin.

Where the Valkyrie in fighter mode had the sleek lines and traditional look of a late 20th Century jet fighter- a killer- the "Logan" had more the appearance of a VW Bug with wings.

Its bulbous airframe with its high-sitting cockpit and elevated bubble canopy gave it the look of something incapable of the speeds it had been clocked at. What that pudgy body afforded the Logan, a comfort that Valkyrie pilots could not claim as their own, was a heavily armored cockpit intended to protect the single occupant from ground-based cannon and energy weapons fire.

Of course all of this Winters only saw as support to his argument that the Logan was not a "fighter" even in _fighter_ mode any more than the ASC developed F-1B "Spector" was a fighter.

It was a glorified attack aircraft.

To use the analogy of a successful predecessor, it was an A-10 with delusions of grandeur- but in its element it showed at least the promise of greatness.

Being half the size and roughly half the dry weight of the Valkyrie and almost a third in both respects of the Adventurer II, the Logan did have the appeal of being able to make use of smaller airfields and unfinished bases of operation- as small as a clearing in the jungle. This gave it the ability to forward deploy with far greater ease than any aircraft of a similar role fielded by the RDF, and as a result gave it quicker reaction time to the threats it was clearly intended to counter.

Almost to Winters' dismay though, the Logan designers had seemed to take to heart the Valkyrie pilot's thoughts on the uselessness of the Battloid form. Only a Guardian mode served the Logan as an alternate configuration, strongly reminiscent of the Valkyrie's with its "half-plane with legs and arms" appearance, or "the chicken" as some had called it early on.

Awkward and initially unattractive as the Guardian forms of both Veritechs were, they did offer the pilot full VTOL capability- even when heavily loaded with ordinance. This offset any aesthetic consideration outright.

There were few surprises in the three forms of transformable war machines to the officers gathered around the table in General Butler's commander's briefing room. Much like the developmental stages of the VF-1 series Valkyrie, something that Winters was intimately familiar with, the machines that he and the other officers of Edwards were now being briefed on had flown and walked in static configurations for some time.

It was their sudden ability to transition between forms in an operationally suitable manner that was cause to take notice here and across the RDF.

The ASC;s stealing of the idea of the Veritech had been no great surprise. The theft of the _ability_ to deliver it was a cause for greater concern.

"Thoughts or comments?", Major General Butler solicited from his seat at the head of the table.

Winters realized that in drifting into the vortex of various thoughts that were spinning inside his head- he had missed the concluding remarks of Colonel Malcolm's briefing.

That was fine though as Winters was fairly certain that the techniques of intelligence gathering had not yet advanced to clairvoyance. Not that an intelligence officer would admit that-.

" _So what?_ "

A churn of murmurs voiced the collective shock at the statement, and Winters was doubly shocked after a moment's silence to realize that he had uttered the words. Perhaps not enough coffee that morning or a slug of bourbon from the night before still traveling through his bloodstream- but the words had been his and he was now obliged to justify them.

"Care to elaborate on that, Jack?", Butler said, more as a directive than an invitation.

Winters flipped open the folder of briefing photos and materials that had been provided in hardcopy and pushed them out fan-like onto the glassy, polished surface of the table.

"From my perspective-.", Winters said sifting through the photos without real purpose, "-the Southern Cross chaps have just honed their tactical edge somewhat. This isn't a strategic sea change by any stretch of the imagination. It smacks more of _Veritech envy_ than any shift in their mode of warfighting."

Colonel Malcolm, looking slightly displeased at not having his briefing leave all in awe simply asked, "This wouldn't be a personal bias, would it Colonel Winters?"

Winters shook his head, "Not in the least. I'm still as unimpressed by that lot of tossers as I was when I got up this morning. Look at the bigger picture for a moment-. Their standard method is still to establish and deploy from a fixed stronghold- a _base_ , or a forward staging area. Their air wing is still governed by ground based control that isn't even networked, or _interoperable_ except for a few strategically key regions- and believe me, _I know-_."

"No, the Southern Cross is still focused on battlefield and regional domination. They may be holding a flashier hand, but they're still playing at the same game table."

Malcolm's expression soured visibly, "Your recent adventures in Brazil not withstanding, Winters, I think you're still missing the significant shit this development represents in The Control Zone."

Winters shrugged, "And begging your pardon, _sir_ , I think you're overestimating it. The fight is already completely asymmetrical-. Hell, if they want to spend billions on fielding higher-tech ways of providing close air support to their troops, I say let them."

"This fighter, this chopper- they're nothing if not fancier ways to do the same hedge-hopping missions that are already supported perfectly by much cheaper platforms in our inventory."

"I'll say it again- _they're showing off."_

" It will take them eighteen months at least to deploy viable units that can start to learn the lessons that come with these new systems and it will be another thirty-six before they can start to field pilots who benefit from them."

"If you're looking for a great mystery to grapple with, figure out how they managed to adapt and mature the stolen technology so quickly and how they intend to produce these things on any scale. I assume they're not _knitting_ them."

General Butler had personal knowledge of Winters' ability to annoy and could tell that the senior NORAMWEST intelligence officer was reaching that point. Rather than having to intervene in what could become a physical altercation, Butler chose to pull the advantages of rank by speaking.

"What Jack is stabbing at, Colonel, besides your patience is that the influence on the theater of operations generated by these Southern Cross advances cannot be accurately determined until we start to see how they intend to deploy them. If their production and application are limited and just provide an occasional _wow_ effect- that will be one thing. If they make these platforms and their follow-ons the mainstay of their forces- that's another."

"I think the critical issue is-."

The dull but unmistakable sound of an explosion muffled by the dampening effects of the building's double-paned windows and solid construction was heard by all at the table and coincided with the slight rattling of framed photos on the wall.

Eyes turned instantly to the windows that looked out onto the dry Rogers Lake bed beyond the base's administrative compound and flight line facilities to where the first fingers of smoke could be seen rising into the otherwise flawless blue sky of the desert morning.

The phone at the head of the briefing table where Major General Butler could be expected to sit rang as the sirens of emergency vehicles began to wail from unseen places on the distant tarmac.

Butler picked up the phone and without hesitation said, "I heard-. Who was it?"

The tower chief was in the process of replying when Butler noticed the door to the briefing room was open and on the return swing, and that Winters was missing from the company of officers.

Winters had successfully flagged down a pair of airmen in a land rover in the HQ parking lot and had found them immediately willing to take him to the airfield.

Standing in the open bed of the vehicle holding the roll-bar to steady himself, Winters could still feel himself sweating at the temples and under the leather collar of his jacket despite the bracing chill of the morning air. Though the hangars and workshop buildings that occupied the tarmac obscured his view of the dry lakebed, Winters could tell from the position of the dwindling smoke plume that the crash had occurred far out and likely just inside of the opposite shore.

The Vigilantes had been flying and would have been due to return about now, so the dreadful question heavy on Winters' mind at least had an answer with a set possible cast.

As the rover turned onto the receiving tarmac the seventh of what had been an eight ship flight of Valkyries was rolling to a stop.

A swarm of ground crew personnel surrounded each and worked furiously to attend to the various tasks of securing each fighter. Two Valkyries stood away from the rest and away from each other with fire trucks standing nearby in the event that their services should be required.

At a glance Winters could see damage to the port engine and leading edge of the wing of one, but nothing that indicated a fire was imminent.

The trucks were a mandatory precaution as was the ambulance whose medics were performing a quick check on the pilot out of the back of their vehicle.

As the pilots congregated, their helmets coming off, Winters easily found the one pilot in particular he was looking for and whom he was happier than he would have admitted aloud was not involved in the crash on the lakebed.

Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni was well clear of her undamaged fighter and all of the others before she made any attempt at lighting a cigarette. Though the Valkyries' plasma reaction fusion engines did not require conventional petroleum-based fuel, smoking on the flight line or around secured aircraft was still forbidden by regulation.

There were times that regulations were ignored by both the violator and the enforcer alike though.

Mumuni was fixated on the task of lighting her cigarette as Winters drew near and as he did so he could see the cause of the effort. The cigarette between her lips danced at the tip from the tremors that at the same time made her hands shake.

Winters knew "the shakes" all too well- well enough to know that the cigarette his superior was so badly craving would not drive them away. On the other hand though, a nic-fit combined with the shakes was a whole other circle of hell to be experienced.

Better to have one's fix.

Winters was able to strike a flame on his Zippo with his first attempt and before Mumuni could even put her thumb on the wheel of her own for another try.

"Bad day at the office?"

Mumuni was able to steady her cigarette long enough to light it and let Winters' comment pass knowing it was not being made in bad taste or from insensitivity.

"You don't know the half-.", Mumuni said through an exhaled cloud of smoke that could not have possibly come from inside her small frame. Then sensing the question on the other squadron commander's mind she simply said as with any other professional issue, "Binky-. He got out though, we all saw silk."

Though he would have not consciously allowed the display, Winters felt a sigh of relief escape him before he could stop it. The fact that a parachute from the Valkyrie's "0-0" (zero-altitude, zero airspeed) ejection seat had been seen by Mumuni and others in her squadron was a good indication that the pilot had a considerable chance of surviving the ejection- assuming he had sustained no life-threatening injuries leading up to it.

A "bad" landing might mean a broken bone or in the worst cases a broken back- but fatal injuries from landing were extremely rare.

Looking across the lakebed to see the tiny dots of neon green that were the fire and rescue trucks against the dark smudge of smoke from aircraft wreckage said to Winters that the Valkyrie had fared much worse.

"Binky'll be in the service a long time to pay that off, I'm afraid.", Winters said suddenly realizing that he too wanted a cigarette badly.

Mumuni smiled weakly as she fished her sunglasses out of the pocket of her flight suit, "Well, everyone needs something worthwhile to spend that extra combat pay on."

Lt Col "Dusty" Drake, who had not been in the flight that had just returned but who had been on the scene when Winters had arrived came jogging over to where the two squadron leaders smoked as if gossiping.

"Medics just radioed the tower", the Vigilante XO said sounding relieved before he had even delivered the meat of the message, "Binky's got a helluva twisted ankle and a busted lip from kissing the lakebed, but he's fine otherwise. What the hell happened up there?"

Winters knew Drake didn't require a full explanation as he, like the "stand-by" element from Knight Hawk Squadron had likely been listening in on the Vigilante flight from the squadron ready rooms. For most patrols of The Outlands, listening to the routine and idle chatter between pilots was as exciting as listening to paint crack and peel- but when action was found the soundtrack of unfolding events was more closely followed than the finals match for The Gold Cup.

Mumuni shook her head as though she was still piecing together an event that she had been present for, "Not sure-. It was strange. We were near the southeast turn of the circuit to head back west, just coming up on the edge of Crater Range when we start to get painted by tracking radar."

"So I turn on the source, still at just under twenty-thousand and dive on it. -I'm at around seven thousand when I get into range and send two Shrikes back down the beam at the ground station."

"He's got to see me and see the two Shrikes homing in on him, but he never turns off his set. He gets off a few shots at me and my wingman with an old AA-gun before he gets a face full of Shrike."

"Then, before the pieces even stop falling, an old, rusted-out pickup truck makes a break for open desert from a depression or something. I doubt we would have even known he was there if he hadn't bolted."

"So, we heated up our Mavericks and take him out with a single shot."

Winters nodded in the direction of the landed Valkyrie flight and of the damaged ships noted, "Well, all that wasn't done by a single AA gun. Some of that's missile damage-."

Mumuni nodded, "Because after I made a couple of passes low and slow and saw nothing, I called the rest of the flight down to comb the area- I figured the dittos had to be hiding something and I wanted to know what it was."

"And?" asked Drake.

"And they were hiding three jokers with shoulder-fired SAMs- _good ones._ They waited for us to be right overhead before they shot. Binky took the worst hit- right under the belly-. Blew his damn gun pod clean off and bent the plane to boot. I don't know how he made it back this far honestly-."

Winters' mind began to grind away again on familiar suspicions recently developed.

This was too close to the misfortune that had befallen Gecko, Bucket, Corkscrew, and Humbug to be coincidence. Valkyries were becoming a prized game bird in The Outlands and there didn't appear to be a limit.

Worse though was that with all likelihood Knight Hawk Squadron was already into the engagement area having scrambled from their alert status the moment the first bullet had been reported as having been fired.

If the pattern held ture-.

Actually, there was no pattern except that a good many Zentraedi lately had gotten it into their minds that shooting at CAP fighters was good sport. Regularly these Zentraedi were left in no condition to practice that sport twice, but the practice remained an occurrence that was more and more frequent.

Still, the lack of clear reason beyond the possibility of some mass epidemic of suicide in the Zentraedi malcontent ranks was a bother to Winters.

Zentraedi _always_ had a reason- they were not a people given to whimsy.

Mumuni's shaking had gone down considerably by the time she had finished her cigarette. Grinding the butt out under her boot heel she said almost casually to her XO,

"Dusty, have the ground crews break our reserve birds out of storage. I want them armed up and ready to raise wheels in twenty minutes- along with everyone else in the squadron."

"Armed for what?", Drake asked.

"What do you think? I want the cavalry just over the horizon if the Knight Hawks run into more of what we got.", Mumuni said, "And besides, the Army is already on its way in with air assault troops and they're always screaming for air cover."

"Got it.", Drake replied before starting back in the direction of the Valkyries from which he had come.

Normally there would be a debriefing and after-action assessment following a mission, even in a quick turn-around situation, and rarely were the reserve aircraft of a squadron so quickly brought into service. The malcontents had drawn blood though, and at all levels in the fighter wing SOP had a way of being curbed somewhat to facilitate a faster response.

"Getting shot at once in a day not enough for you?", Winters asked Mumuni knowing that even the most solid pilots needed a time to decompress after so close a call, "Let my chaps shoulder it for a while."

Mumuni shook her head, "No, that's been our mistake. They jab at us, we jab back, and then we let the dust settle before we head back. We've flushed some of them out and those we didn't are probably itching for a fight now."

"The Army will have boots on the ground in less than an hour. If we can get the dittos to bite again, we can really drop the hammer on them. _I_ want in on that."

"Sure, but you have other squadrons to throw at this too-.", Winters suggested.

Mumuni turned viciously on Winters, snarling, "- _Well, I'd ask for your help but I don't need a memo written on it!_ "

The words stung more pronouncedly than Winters would have believed possible and it must have shown on his face because Mumuni's expression had changed to show hints of apology before the breath carrying the offensive utterance had fully escaped.

Winters simply raised his hands to resign from the situation and turned after two backwards steps to walk away.

Mumuni's first instinct was to pursue and make amends, but she knew the wound she'd left was too raw to be closed this moment. She had given orders to have her squadron brought back up to combat readiness and she had that to attend to first.

Jack would wait.

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Platform, "Archer 42"**

"Attention all hands, attention all hands-.", came the voice of the chief of the watch loudly over the PA system in the narrow corridors of the space station, "-Cargo transfer aboard is complete, offloading detail is secure. Transport shuttle to Walhalla will depart in thirty minutes. All personnel with liberty passes and transport authorization, report to Airlock Forty to embark. That is all."

Lieutenant Commander Thomas J. Queffle let the announcement pass before trying to continue the parting conversation with the Kasumi Corporation foreman, Franklin.

After two progress briefings a day on the station's upgrade that had taken place over the course of just under six weeks, it seemed wholly appropriate to the station commander to see the last of the contractors off of his platform.

The bulk of the contractor workforce, 137 strong, had departed a week earlier with the Kasumi vessel- a combination cargo ship and workshop all bound together inside of an ugly hull that protruded irregularly with robotic manipulator arms and that was nearly as long and high as the A.R.M.D. II. Neither the ship nor its crew had been at Archer 42 to add to its cosmetic beauty though. They had been there to perform, and they had performed a spacedock quality, end-to-end upgrade – and in astonishing time.

The "effort" had been an addition to the station's arsenal and all of the structural and systemic modifications that had been required to support it. In round-the-clock shifts based completely off of the Kasumi _Oka Maru_ , mounting structures for two, four-gun batteries had risen from the outer hull of Archer 42- one dorsal and one ventral. Augmenting the battery of 160 Mk-4C Pegasus long-range, anti-ship missiles were eight modified Zentraedi-style heavy particle beam gun turrets identical to those wielded by REF warships.

While the addition of these guns did not make an A.R.M.D. II platform comparable in firepower to even the smallest Zentraedi vessel, it did offer the comfort to the crew of not being without offensive capability once the last volley of Pegasus missiles had left their launcher tubes.

True to the underlying theory of the A.R.M.D. II constellation orbiting the Earth, the eight guns new to each station were not intended to operate alone. Given the right defense scenario on which the platforms and the constellation arrangement had been designed, a station would act in coordination with all of the other stations above that planetary hemisphere.

 _That_ added up to _a lot_ of gun batteries, and constituted a real threat to even a respectably sized Zentraedi battle group.

"Well, do I have to fill out any paperwork to activate the warrantee?", Queffle asked with a humor he and Franklin had developed over the course of the upgrade.

Franklin, a solid, round black man whose appearance spoke of overseeing many projects out in extreme weather before trying out his "space legs" shrugged and with feigned contractor's indifference replied, "Don't know, not my department."

In fact, Franklin had not only demonstrated expertise in his department by quickly and efficiently completing jobs on schedule, but also demonstrated a great deal of knowledge about everything related to his job. Questions that arose had been resolved quickly and mostly by Franklin who had contacted directly the individuals on three different continents who would know answers- and had even carried out the discussions in as many languages.

No, despite the fact that Archer 42 had been noticeably overcrowded for six weeks- Queffle was going to miss the company of many of the workers.

"We'll figure it out.", Queffle said, "And we'll probably never need the warranty anyway."

"Or I'll be a long ways gone before you know that you do-.", Franklin laughed, and extending his hand to shake offered a final, "Hope you never need them, but if you do- happy hunting."

"Thanks.", Queffle said, taking the man's thick hand and pumping it twice, "We hope to never need them either. Oh, and by the way-."

The station commander raised his left hand that held a bottle bound up inside a velvet bag and offered it to Franklin, saying-.

"A small gift from Archer 42."

Franklin accepted the parcel and drew down the sleeve to examine the contents.

"Johnny Walker Black-.", the foreman said approvingly, "I don't drink much, but when the occasion arises, this is the stuff to do it with."

Queffle shrugged, "Wish I could say that it was from my private stock, but it's really tribute from goodies acquired for our holiday bash."

"The sentiment's the same.", Franklin said, tipping his hat and stepping through the airlock, "Take `er easy now, Commander."

Queffle waited for the foreman to cross the short gangway that separated the smaller commercial vessel that had replaced _Oka Maru_ from the military space station and to begin sealing the airlock on his side before the officer pressed the button in the control panel to do the same.

The inner and outer lock doors slid shut smoothly and met with a pronounced _thud_ and _click_. When the panel showed green, signifying that the doors on both sides of the gangway had been secured, Queffle pressed the equalization switch evacuating the air from the gangway.

Moving to the intercom peanel above the airlock controls, the CO buzzed the control center.

"CC, Lieutenant Morris."

"Morris, Queffle-.", the commander announced himself, "Kasumi personnel have disembarked. Airlock and gangway are secure. Have Flight grant them departure upon request."

"Aye sir.", Morris complied, then added, "Commander, has Chief O'Toole found you with that com?"

Queffle paused in thought, wondering what communication could be so immediately important that the station's senior chief would hand carry it to the CO.

"No, he hasn't-. What com?"

"A general personnel directive from the top, sir. Leave restrictions, effective immediately-. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it's not going to go over well."

Queffle kicked the bulkhead before him with just enough force to know he'd done it and said for lack of ability to do anything else, "That figures-. I'm headed over to the shuttle bay now. If O'Toole pipes up to you, let him know."

"Aye sir."

Queffle closed out the channel and considered what was next on his list of things to be done. Morris's warning of the communication carried by O'Toole was reshuffling the list.

Almost any kind of restriction on leave was going to affect _someone_ aboard Archer 42, and these were people who deserved the liberty they had put in for. No matter what a person's sense of duty or level of dedication, service aboard an A.R.M.D. II platform was a sentence served in a grey metal box. In some ways it was worse even than service aboard a ship of the Fleet as on a ship deployed a person had only the memory of home and family to remind them that they were away.

On a platform, one only had to go as far as the nearest port to look out and see Earth- right there, but well out of reach.

Liberty passes at holiday times were therefore highly-cherished things. Loss of them carried the same emotional weight as finding out about bad news from home.

Morris had been right- this was not going to be good.

In the knowing that there was to be bad news to a good portion of the station's crew, the task that Queffle had set for himself following seeing off the Kasumi contractors was that much more important.

As the CO had been parting ways with Franklin, there had been the ambiguous announcement made over the PA system regarding the offloading of cargo from one of the station's regular shuttles. Queffle had been on the inside track in knowing that the "cargo" included what were benignly known as "holiday rations".

In truth, "holiday rations" had been arriving aboard Archer 42, as well as aboard the other A.R.M.D. IIs in the defense constellation for a week or more. With the regular shipments of perishables and consumables were included extra allotments of meat, flour, sugar and most importantly- booze.

Alcohol was not forbidden on the station any more than it was aboard a REF vessel so long as it was controlled by the appropriate parties and rationed out through the dispensary. Seen as a privilege and not a right, alcohol was consumed (for the most part) with the fitting sense of responsibility and rarely were there cases of drunkenness or related discipline problems.

With the Christian holidays, and the joint celebration of New Years and Unification Day- restrictions were loosened just slightly and both the quantity and quality of alcohol allowed to the crew was increased. The bottle of scotch that Queffle had given to Franklin had come from a case that had been flown in the day before, and what remained was certain to have a lot of companionship because of the provisions that had just been offloaded.

"Holiday rations" would not push the crew over into a sense of extravagant living, not by any means- but they did have a way of helping a grey metal box less gloomy during festive times.

For that reason, it was important to Queffle to stop in on each provisions-handling detail. While the importance of the booty to all was known to every member of the details, there was always that weakness and temptation that came with being human to create one's own "personal stash".

An anticipated and expected visit by the CO had a way of keeping everyone honest and ensuring that the mess staff would have the makings of a special event for all aboard.

Queffle suspected that the extra niceties were going to be all that more critical to the crew this year as he made his way laterally through the station's narrow internal passages. It was outside of the shuttle bay serving the craft that had ferried in the supplies and that would have normally ferried off personnel that Queffle came across O'Toole- or more likely was intercepted by him.

The chief's normally sunny expression, now sullen, told the commander much as he raised a folded message form between the fingers of his meaty hand.

"How bad?", Queffle asked, knowing that there was no point in small talk. Beyond the open compartment doors he could see that expectant crew had already assembled to embark and were growing restless and concerned at not being allowed to do so.

"Bad.", O'Toole said flatly, "If I didn't know our people, Skipper, I'd be worried about mutiny."

Queffle opened the message form that was handed to him by O'Toole and scanned the body of the text quickly confirming both of O'Toole's assertions. The news was bad, and another crew might have been tempted tot mutiny.

"I can do it-.", O'Toole offered, accepting the unpleasant task as one he'd perform to preserve the good will generally afforded by the crew to the CO.

"No-.", Queffle said rejecting the suggestion outright as he folded the message form along its crease again and pinching it firmly into a sharper edge, "It comes with the oak leaves."

Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft let her sea bag slide off her right shoulder and lowered it to the deck careful not to either wrinkle the carefully pressed lines of her khaki uniform or to possibly damage the half dozen Christmas presents for the kids she had packed within. Intermingled with utility changes of uniform, and toiletries was a _special_ outfit she'd wear for Kevin that was real satin and in a shade of deep hunter green that actually worked well with her fair complexion.

This would be the first time in four months that she had left Archer 42 on more than a short haul to the GS-95 Robotech Factory on station or squadron related business. The fact that it would be a trip to Mars's REF Schiaparelli Base via the massive alien space station, and for all intents and purposes trading one grey steel box with recycled air for another did not matter.

The grey steel box on Mars held all that was dear to her. Kevin, her husband was in the know- but son, Martin- eight, and daughter, Meagan- four, were unaware that Santa would be dropping off more than presents this year.

Seeing her family and seeing her children's surprise made the trip the closest Kroft could hope to get to heaven while still breathing.

And best of all, it was just a shuttle flight and a hitched ride on a cargo ship away.

Only something was wrong.

Amanda could sense it.

Shuttles came and went from Archer 42 on a daily basis. Supply replenishments, personnel transfers- for any number of reasons shuttles came and went, their comings and goings being a practiced exercises that ran like clockwork every time.

Except for now.

It did not take the so-called _woman's intuition_ , or familiarity with the processes and time required to prepare a shuttle for departure to tip off Amanda or the 23 other passengers due to leave on this particular flight that something was amiss.

The shuttle's crew chief, who normally would have been verifying transport orders and moving personnel aboard as quickly as he could was standing just inside the airlock's inner hatch. He had been called aboard the shuttle minutes earlier, presumably by the pilot, and had emerged looking guilty and uneasy.

 _Nervous_ , Kroft decided after studying the young petty officer for a while was a better description. He looked nervous in the way that riot-control police looked nervous as they steeled themselves for a clash.

"What do you think, Lieutenant?"

Amanda emerged from her fog of thought to find a thin black woman in perhaps her early twenties and sounding faintly of the Caribbean looking to her for an explanation. Kroft had seen this petty officer before in the mess and in passing through the corridors and spaces of the station's lower decks around the mechanical spaces.

Why she should think that Kroft might have more insight into why they were not already on their way to the GS-95 was questionable. Still, as one of three first lieutenants on the deck, it made sense that the specialist might ask her.

"Part of me doesn't even want to know.", Kroft said bleakly.

There was a cold sensation resolving in the depths of her belly and with every passing second she expected less and less for the outcome of the delay to be favorable to those holding liberty passes.

Kroft consciously made an effort to assure herself that there were all kinds of explanations for the delay other than the one she dreaded the most.

"-Maybe this bird's been re-routed to another platform. It happens- a med-evac, or an admiral's kid needs to make the first flight home-."

There was a shuffle and a snap of limbs going to rigid attention.

Kroft found herself at attention too, reacting to those around her like a reflex.

"CO on deck!"

Lieutenant Commander Queffle waded through the personnel in the compartment making a waving gesture that told all to stand easy. He made no eye contact with anyone as he moved to and placed himself in front of the open airlock and gangway that led to the shuttle.

Raising a folded piece of paper, he now faced his subordinates and made a point of fixing his gaze on each in quick turn. His expression was stern but with an apologetic quality that resided just beneath the forced, hardened surface.

"Listen up!", Queffle said in a commander's matter-of-fact tone, "I'm not going to waste anyone's time reading this- there's no sugar-coating a turd-."

"The bottom line is that Command has imposed a twelve hour recall restriction on all leave, approved and pending. The order gives no justification beyond a _credible need for readiness_."

The CO's expression and tone softened slightly without losing his air of authority, "You all know what that means, and I'm sorry."

Lips remained tightly sealed, though if 23 people could have groaned, screamed, or begun sobbing through their pores, Kroft was certain that it would have been happening around her.

She was sure that she would have been doing all three.

Heavy exhalation was the only audible protest as overall composure and discipline was maintained.

Queffle folded the message form he was holding over again once more so he could slip it into his shirt pocket, hiding away the vile instrument of cruelty.

"We've all seen these come down the line before, and the order is rarely left standing for more than seventy-two hours. We'll agree that the timing blows- but that it's something that we'll wade through together."

"I will promise that everyone here and everyone in the queue for leave will keep their order and priority and we'll get you on your way as soon as we can."

"Maybe we don't get to have eggnog by the tree, but champagne on New Year's ain't bad-."

"That is all."

Without another word but carrying himself similar to the family dog that peed on the living room carpet, LCDR Queffle made his way out of the compartment so that the offended could vent collectively before gathering up their dignity and returning to the grey spaces of the station that was home.

Amanda Kroft fired up her determination that she would hold herself together until she could be back in the privacy of the small cabin she shared with another pilot of her squadron.

It was the same determination she had found and conjured regularly to get through the physical and mental rigors of basic and flight trainings, fighter school, and the periods of separation from her family.

Kroft bent at the waist to pick up her sea bag and felt three tears run their hot path along the bridge of her nose to drip on and darken in spots the fabric of the duffle.

There were some pains that determination just wouldn't carry one through.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Exhaustion.

Recruit Trainee Andrew Eric Johnson had thought once that he had known what the word _exhaustion_ meant.

Up to recently, _exhaustion_ had been the fatigue of preparing for school exams, or the ache and physical drag of training up for and playing a football season through to the finals. It had been the relentless drain of emotion that surrounded and followed the burial of his eldest brother Dexter after his accidental death in the Army- and the slow way that the family- his parents in particular- had righted themselves again to a near even keel.

None of these things had been _true_ exhaustion though.

Exhaustion in its truest form had skulked along in the shadows all throughout Andy's life, stalking him like a big cat might an antelope, biding its time and waiting for the ideal moment and position itself and pounce.

That moment had finally come at Falkirk.

Andy had discovered in twelve weeks that _exhaustion_ was not simply a physical sensation, or a mental state, or even a combination of both.

It possessed qualities that attacked all the senses and at the same time the soul.

It was the blinding glare of fluorescent lights that came on at 0415 and drove into one's eyes like rusty nails. It lived in many smells, whether it be mud and sweat, or boot polish, or the cleansers used to mop floors and scrub toilets, or the smell of the chow line in the mess that actually turned the stomach when fatigue and hunger drove one beyond the ability to eat.

And exhaustion had a sound as well.

The sound varied from a grumble and growl up through the octaves to a shrill, piercing tone that drilled into the base of one's spine and rode the nerve fibers up clear to the center of one's brain.

The sound of exhaustion unlike its other qualities was owned, and it was owned by Senior Training Sergeant SMSgt. O'Shae.

Granted, the sound of exhaustion was borrowed from time to time by any or all of O'Shae's six attack dog, assistant training sergeant minions- but the sound truly belonged to O'Shae and had a distinct Irish brogue.

On the terminal march back into Falkirk RTC 32 from Training Platoon 6045's final survival and navigational training exercise, more than the uncomfortable gibes of his friend Cedric, Cattermole, or Kingsley- more than the smoldering, seething hatred of them all emanating from the equally teased and embarrassed Pamela Dunn- it was the thought of hearing that voice that Andy found the most daunting.

Every muscle burned and every joint ached as Andy slogged on in a dream-like state of weariness.

Andy was sure that one pointed or grinding remark would be all that it would take to do him in completely and finally make him gruel- as he was certain was O'Shae's ultimate goal in life.

Oddly though, in crossing over the training center's open perimeter and joined by members of other training platoons who were similarly straggling in, there were no marauding bands of training sergeants lying in wait to bully the recruit trainees the final two kilometers or so across mustering fields and parade grounds to the broad, squat cinderblock barracks buildings that had become home.

Nor were they lurking inside the doorway in ambush to catch the trainees off guard after lulling them into security.

In fact, there was no sign that the training sergeants were anywhere in the vicinity except for the two pieces of evidence that greeted and jarred each recruit at their bunk.

Hanging on the outside of each trainee's locker, cleaned, pressed, and polished meticulously were the trainees' dress uniforms for graduation.

On each pillow was the small token of comfort and affection of a chocolate bar.

The cumulative effect was overwhelming and for reasons he could not explain to himself beyond it being an effect of exhaustion- Andy Johnson found himself almost at tears.

Andy did not break down though. No one did.

Whether it was that they were all to tired to weep, still in need of showering and grooming before the 1100 graduation ceremony, or just plain afraid that this might be the final test in twelve weeks of training and testing- not a tear was shed.

As had become strict practice, showers were taken in ninety seconds or less. Teeth were brushed and for Andy the ability to shave with eight strokes of a safety razor was proven yet again.

All without word between recruit trainees.

Upon returning to the main bunk room, the trainees of Platoon 6045 found that their training sergeants, including O'Shae had reappeared.

There was no shouting now though. Their masters of twelve weeks now only assisted them in donning their dress uniforms and achieving the proper appearance, more like parents getting their children into their Sunday best than the menacing ghouls of drill and discipline they had been only days before.

Standing on the parade ground at attention and in perfect, measured formation with the rest of his platoon, Andy Johnson could scarcely remember how he had gotten there or what the opening remarks of Colonel Fitzpatrick, the training center commander had been. Goldfish like, his reality was the _now_ and stretched back only the few seconds of memory that his spent brain would hold.

Flags and banners snapped crisply in small gusts of the Scottish wind that carried with it biting flecks of icy sleet that stung the face like pinpricks. These sensations helped to keep Andy focused.

"-And as we, your instructors, guides, and mentors congratulate you on the pride you have earned in your accomplishments-.", Colonel Fitzpatrick continued from the podium at the center of the platform that had been erected for the occasion, "-We are duty-bound and obligated to remind you of the charge you have now been given."

"You now shoulder the expectation to grow as the backbone of the Services and to rise to the challenges of defending your home. We have done our best to prepare you for this shared burden, and your instructors have certified you as ready to face the demands ahead."

"We are proud of you as you should be proud of yourselves, and we know you will justify that pride."

Fitzpatrick paused for a moment to allow a particularly strong gust to carry over the platform on which his officers and training staff were seated, over the assembled platoons of recruits, and over the review stands of invited families and friends before saying conclusively-.

"In accordance with prescribed standards and qualifications, I declare the Robotech Defense Forces, Falkirk Regional Training Center 32, Recruit Trainee Class 707 hereby graduated."

"Dismissed!"

A singular roar rose from the platoons who were now full, enlisted members of the Defense Forces. Andy realized his voice had joined and mingled with the others around him as he had without conscious forethought removed his enlisted man's cap and hurled it skyward to join hundreds of others without concern for retrieval.

The neat rows and columns of training platoons dissolved as the review stands emptied and loved ones not seen or heard from for three months began to mesh with the graduated class.

Cedric tugged on twhe sleeve of Andy's uniform coat and thrust a cap that had fallen back to earth into his hand as he half-turned to his friend. Pamela Dunn was disappearing into the mixing mass of uniformed figures and was only distinguishable by the tight French braid she'd woven her hair into. Glancing to Cedric and then looking quickly back, Andy's heart dropped slightly at having lost sight of the one who had not spoken to him for hours despite close proximity.

" _Back in your cage, tiger_.", Cedric said to his friend with a shake of his arm, "You can get back into that _after_ we've seen the family and _after_ she's had a little time to put a little distance between herself and this morning."

Andy pulled his arm free with a sharp tug but allowed Pamela to slip away without pursuit. He had learned volumes more about women in just the past twenty-four hours, but he had known enough before to grudgingly admit that Cedric was correct. Chasing her right now was the wrong thing to do- even if the opposite felt true.

Cedric was right on a second point as well, one that Andy found himself instantly ashamed at overlooking:

His _family_ was here to see _him._

He had not spoken to them in what seemed two lifetimes, but a week before- when his graduation from basic training had been a near certainty- RTC 32 had sent out official notice and invitation to the event.

Knowing that his family was wading through other reunions to find him as he was sure that Pamela's family was looking for her was enough to make Andy set the thoughts of his hazel-eyed Venus aside temporarily.

He'd find her again later.

"Come on then-.", Cedric urged, pulling Andy in tow by the sheer force of his will as he navigated them through variations on the same meetings and conversations between the newly indoctrinated and the families who had not seen them since they had given up their civilian status.

"Have you even seen your mum or my folks?", Andy asked as he scanned the crowd and found he could see no more than four or five meters deep in any direction.

"Who needs to see?", Cedric replied in the supremely confident voice Andy had come to know not just in training but on the football field before, or in anything really that Cedric had applied himself to.

"I mean penguins can find their mates in flocks of thousands without problems, so-... I _shouldn't_ have mentioned mates, should have I?"

"I'll let it drift.", Andy replied as he was nearly crushed between a hulking enlistedman and his equally massive father. Escaping the vice-like collision though, he found his mind back on Pamela Dunn, "I suspect it all won't add up to much in the long run though."

"Probably not.", Cedric agreed as he led Andy around another uniformed graduate and the gathering of what looked to be everyone in the town from which she had come who were all determined to embrace her or pat her on the shoulder or back.

"What do you mean, _probably not?_ ", Andy heard himself demand a little more sharply than what could have been taken as a "healthy response" for the circumstances.

Cedric shot him a quick, disparaging look with his eyes rolling, "Oh, for God's sake..."

" _What?!"_ , Andy shot back defensively, "What's wrong with maybe wanting something- _meaningful-_?.."

Cedric shook his head and pressed on around a giant "group hug" that seemed more of a brawl at first glance with its flailing arms and bobbing heads.

After a moment he said back over his shoulder, "You want that alphabetically or in the order of importance? - _Wanker…._ "

" _Oh, there are the boys!"_

All thoughts of Pamela Dunn evacuated Andy instantly like a guilty thing making its hasty retreat from judgment of a force and a voice that Andy had known all of his life. What Cedric had said scarcely a minute before about penguins being able to find one another in crowds of thousands suddenly had a certain credence to it.

Andy had heard his mother's voice, distinctive and unmistakable well before his eyes had fixed on her in the rolling boil of military and their families that was just beginning to thin.

Lorraine Johnson came at her son like a whirling Dervish with affectionate intent and Andy had to quell the defensive response he'd acquired with so much sparring practice in training. She snared him in an embrace a moment later and as Andy's nostrils filled with the light, floral scent that he had always identified with his mother, the uniform, the training, the twelve weeks of Falkirk, O'Shae, and his attack dogs all seemed to slough away.

He was home again in spirit and it felt good.

"Lorraine, the Government has just spent a prince's ransom in training that lad and you're going to smother him before it can get a return on the investment!"

Andy felt his mother's embrace slacken on him enough to allow him to see beyond her. He also realized that he'd been babbling an endless stream of affections as was only acceptable between mothers and their youngest sons. The display, as an afterthought, suddenly seemed wholly embarrassing and Andy found some relief in finding Cedric still in the clutches of his mother and jabbering the same way.

Andy's father, Dexter, stood close by- an arm reaching out to pat his shoulder. The old man still leaned heavily on his cane and beneath the fedora hat and woolen overcoat that was keeping the wind and weather out, he still looked like a man hobbled by ancient injury.

In his infirmity though, he seemed to stand taller and with more strength than Andy had remembered him showing in some time. In truth, his last recollection of his father had been the unexpectedly emotional goodbye at the railway station three months before after a short-lived but heated falling out over Andy's enlistment.

Like Andy, Dexter Johnson was much the same as before, but also somehow different.. It was in the eyes. There was pride there.

"Good Lord, boy-.", Dexter said as his pat on his son's back turned into a firm grope of his shoulder and upper arm, "They've had you at the gymnasium, I see-."

"Twice a day sometimes-.", Andy said, breaking out of his mother's embrace fully to put his arms around his father in a brief, masculine, back-slapping hug that was quickly offset with small talk, "So, how are things, Da?"

Dexter Johnson pounded his cane into the parade ground the way a man steadier on his feet might stomp his heel, "All hell if those blocks of flats we were building on the south end aren't still dragging along! All of the good men seem to be heading for your profession these days, and having a look at how you've filled out, who can blame them?!"

" _Dexter!.._ ", Lorraine Johnson exclaimed, appalled at some part of her husband's remark that Andy did not quite understand.

Dexter motioned toward his son with both hands demonstratively, "Well, God's blood, Lorraine!- Look at the lad! We put a skinny boy on a train and look at what we get back! Who'd blame men for choosing the military profession?"

"The question is, what profession in the military will he choose?"

With the comings and goings of so many figures in uniform, Andy had truly not seen his older brother, Howard, standing in plain sight in his RDF-Army uniform. The first and overwhelming urge that Andy felt was to hug the man who had wanted to dissuade him from the course that now found him where he stood- but the twin silver bars of Howard's captain's rank gave him pause.

"Good God, Enlistedman Johnson, you've been graduated for all of three minutes and you've already forgotten how to salute an officer?"

Andy snapped crisply, mechanically almost to attention and brought his hand up in salute to which his brother replied in kind.

" _Now_ you can give your brother a hug."

As the two Johnson sons crushed each other in a bear hug, Andy felt some relief in knowing that it was still the Howard he had always known under the captain's bars.

 _Enlistedman Johnson._

Howard had called him _Enlistedman Johnson_ , and that drove at the heart of the question that he had asked.

In a broad sense, Andy Johnson was a member of _The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces_ now- as basic training was truly a joint services indoctrination. What was entirely his decision now, and what he suddenly realized he had not dedicated much thought to in the rigors of basic training, was what direction his military career would take.

Would he declare Army or Marine Corps, and be _Private Johnson_? Follow the English naval tradition and become _Seaman Johnson_?- aboard a sea-going vessel or a space cruiser perhaps?

 _Airman Johnson_ , if he found some appeal in the RDF-AF?

Andy felt his head begin to spin, but reminded himself that he had a week's time to declare and hopefully be accepted by his choice. If he did not make his choice though, he'd be placed in a lottery of random selection which more often than not meant Army- and likely infantry beyond that.

In that moment though, Andy decided that Falkirk and all of its trials had earned him the right to at least bid for what path _he_ wanted to follow. The question of that path remained, but Andy resolved he'd take the time in the next seven days to think it through and decide.

And also, results of the "Green to Gold" exams were to be posted before the enlisted were granted leave today.

That would either broaden Andy's horizons of possibility to whatever he desired or narrow them to a handful of preferable options.

"Hey, you lot-.", Cedric Collins said drawing the attention of the Johnsons to him, "You need to meet the sorriest piece of work Falkirk has churned out in its rich and illustrious history-."

Andy had lost sight of Cattermole as the ranks of Training Platoon 6045 had fallen into place for review on the parade grounds and in truth had not been thinking of him remotely when the company of enlisted had been dismissed. He found himself happy at seeing him now though.

His left hand tucked into his trouser pocket and the right holding a cigarette, Cattermole looked as though he should have been discussing football scores in a pub while leaning against the bar rather than having just been graduated from basic training.

It was his way Andy had come to learn over the past months.

It was the cigarette that Andy fixated upon though. In an instant he realized that he could not remember the last time he had had one, and the sudden desire for one paled even his cravings to be alone in the dark with Pamela Dunn again.

"This compost heap is Aunt Moggie.", Cedric said motioning toward the other young man, "Aunt Moggie- the Johnsons, and of course Captain Johnson."

Cattermole reluctantly tossed away his cigarette butt as he nodded to Andy's parents and mustered a respectable salute to Howard- all the while Andy's mind still spun on how he had acquired a cigarette so quickly.

"A pleasure-.", Cattermole said benignly enough as he produced a whole pack of smokes from the trouser pocket he had kept his hand in. He offered the pack around, drawing a disdainful look from Cedric who was now clearly yearning for one as badly as Andy and who was similarly obliged not to accept in front of his mother.

Howard did lean forward to accept though and in gratitude offered his lighter to the enlistedman to light his cigarette.

" _Aunt Moggie-_.", Howard repeated as Cattermole's smoke lit, "A family name?"

Casually and without hint of offense, Cattermole replied, "That would be _Lancelot_ , sir-. Scarcely better, so I settle for _Lance_ , or just _Moggie_ -."

"Fair enough.", Howard accepted, "God knows I've heard worse come out of basic-."

"Well, you'll use the name his mother gave him.", Lorraine Johnson insisted to her progeny, "And as your mother, I rank you on that, _Captain_."

Howard made a frail parody of a salute, "Yes, ma'am."

"So, we were discussing how Andy here was going to declare-.", Howard continued, directed at both Collins and Cattermole, "Any thoughts on the matter from you chaps? The Army can always use sturdy blokes-."

"Well, we're waiting for scores-.", Cedric explained knowing that Howard would understand having benefited from the officer acceleration program himself.

" _You're_ waiting for scores.", Cattermole corrected producing from his pocket a folded slip of paper.

A snorting utterance of shock caught in Collins' throat as he gawked, "-And when did you get that?"

"About ninety seconds ago."

"And?"

"Ninety-fourth percentile.", Cattermole replied plainly, "And thank God. The thought of being stuck with Kingsley for the rest of my military days had me looking for a length of rope to tie my own noose."

"He-?", began Collins.

"-Didn't do as well.", Cattermole finished, "Great shock that _that_ is."

Lorraine Johnson looked puzzled, "Ninety-fourth percentile of what? I'm not following you boys-."

"The eligibility test for the officer acceleration program, mum.", Howard explained, "Like what I did."

"Oh-!", Lorraine said, understanding fully and without additional thought, added, "Well, your parents must be immensely proud, Lance."

Visibly caught off guard by the well-intentioned remark, Cattermole recovered before it was perceivable to any but Andy and Cedric to reply, "No doubt."

"Then, what is it to be?", Howard followed on, "Mecha Cavalry can always use fresh blood."

Cattermole shrugged, "Not sure yet-. Somewhere that I can abuse authority-. Steal rice from starving orphans-. You know…."

Lorraine Johnson gasped, "How horrid!"

Cedric laughed, disarming the situation, "-He didn't mean it, Mrs. Johnson-."

"Yes I did."

Cedric gave Cattermole a shot in the ribs with his elbow, and continued, "-He's just like that. He's sort of like a cold sore- annoying, but you learn to work around it."

"Can I have that stitched on a pillow?"

"See-?", Cedric said allowing Cattermole's last comment to stand as an example.

Lorraine Johnson collected herself and said again, "Well, your parents must be proud."

" _Ninety-fourth percentile-._ I didn' know he knew t'read."

The same Irish brogue that had sliced into Andy Johnson so many times over twelve weeks penetrated his spine once again.

O'Shae.

Only after the initial shock of his voice, Andy realized that he felt no menace in it.

O'Shae recognized Howard's rank and made a dutiful and respectful salute. Whether this had an influence on the senior training sergeant's demeanor toward his now former-students was unclear, but in some ways Andy felt as he had as a small boy in the park- standing behind his brother for protection from bullies.

As that initial feeling passed, Andy sensed that the venom in O'Shae was just gone. Like an actor walking off stage, the training sergeant persona was shed like a character set aside until the next draw of the curtains.

"So, Senior Master Sergeant-.", Howard began, looking at Andy and apparently reading much of his thoughts in his face, "I trust this scrapper didn't give you too many nights unrest?"

"Na't'all, sir.", O'Shae said in a voice that Andy recognized in a moment as genuine pride, "He and Collins too-. Some of the finest we've produced here I can say. Some of the finest-."

O'Shae had in his grip a stack of forms identical to the one Cattermole had shown a minute before. Shuffling through them he found and presented one each to Andy and Cedric.

"-And it looks as though the next time I see these two, I'll be saluting them-. That is if they apply themselves and stay the course as we know they can do-. Congratulations, to you both."

Andy opened the folded sheet and found the critical line:

CUMULATIVE AVG: 97%

Andy was struck by the dual feelings of being weak in the knees and light as a feather at the same time. Cedric's expression showed that he was feeling something of the same, but to Andy's genuine surprise it was to the recent bane of his existence that he spoke next.

"Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae-."

O'Shae paused in his withdrawal from the group, "Yes, lad?"

"Thank you."

O'Shae seized Johnson's hand and pumped it twice in his firm and leathery grip, "Na, son-. You take care of the people y'll be charged with, an' tha's how y'll thank old O'Shae."

Without another word, the senior training sergeant released Andy- in many ways- and vanished in search of others from his graduated platoon.

"And so?", Cedric asked waving his score results at Andy.

"Ninety-seven.", Andy replied in a tone daring Cedric to have done better.

" _Ha!_ ", Cedric whooped gleefully, flattening Andy and telling him that he _had_ done better, " _Ninety-eight!_ "

With a single swipe of his hand, Howard grazed both across the backs of their heads, "And neither of you are officers yet, so put them away and zip up."

"Okay, _ninety-three._ ", Andy replied, rubbing the stinging portion of his head where Howard's hand had made contact.

"That's _Captain ninety-three_ to you, Enlistedman.", Howard reminded him with a bit of a swagger.

Dexter Johnson interceded in the evolving squabble between brothers that he had seen many times over and again throughout the years.

"Well, we have an eight o'clock train back to Eagerton. Assuming you have leave and can gather your kit in time, I think we should have a spot of supper before we go. There must be a local restaurant, I'm sure-."

"We're mostly packed already.", Cedric said, understanding that the suggestion was also an invitation to he and his mother who had not broken physical contact with him since finding him in the crowd earlier, "We just need to sign out from the post for leave."

Dexter Johnson nodded and turned his gaze to Cattermole, "And you, lad? I assure you that it wouldn't be an imposition for you and your family to join us-especially as you seem to have gotten chummy with the boys."

There was an uncomfortable pause again, though one that this time did not escape the attention of any in the group before Cattermole replied, "Unfortunately they weren't able to attend today-. And I suspect that I need to either confirm that I can stay on post, or I should be looking for lodging for the next week or so. –I must decline, regrettably."

Understanding the situation at last, Lorraine Johnson exploded in empathy the way Andy had seen her do thousands of times with her selected causes and charities- though in a balanced way that was not patronizing or condescending.

"Oh, certainly not! Not with the holidays upon us! We insist that you come to stay with us. I can't imagine spending Christmas in this dreary place- _camp_ , not Scotland."

Cattermole was hesitant, "Still, I-."

"I can make it an order.", Howard offered.

Lorraine tagged off to rejoin the effort to bring Cattermole into the fold, "And you're practically family, having been there to see Andy become a grown man-."

Cattermole nodded his head to one side with an understanding only he, Cedric, and Andy shared, " _Yes_ , that is true-. I _could_ almost mark the moment for you."

Andy shot the other young man a glare that could have burned through steel.

"Then it's decided.", Lorraine said in clear delight, "You'll be our guest and if you feel you're loafing, I can promise to harass you incessantly for stories."

"I do have a few.", Cattermole admitted,

"Plus, she'll need you to have a full house possibly.", Howard said vaguely as he rediscovered the cigarette he had lit and then neglected.

"How's that?", asked Andy, truly not understanding.

"Some damn thing passed down from command that you'll grow accustom to.", Howard said over a drag on his cigarette, "I'm on twelve hour recall notice. Fortunately both Falkirk and home have me close enough to my unit-. –Anyway-. A hell of a time of the year to pull this."

"Does that effect Andy?", Lorraine asked her eldest surviving son, clearly concerned that the reunion she had been waiting for might be cut short.

Howard shook his head, "No, not really. They're on the books, but not really qualified to do much of anything besides be the cheering squad right now."

"Well", Lorraine hoped out loud, "I don't think it should come to anything much."

"No", Howard agreed, "Probably not. –And even a bleak Christmas is still Christmas."

Andy was preparing to suggest parting company for the sake of making a quicker escape from Falkirk and finding an establishment that offered real food when his eye caught a glimpse of Pamela Dunn.

With her was a late middle-aged couple that together could have produced her and were likely her parents. Suddenly the cravings for freedom, cigarettes, and real food were gone. Andy slipped away without a word to explain himself, and heard Cedric making some excuse as he went.

He didn't care really as he homed in on Pamela.

Still standing with her parents, she saw him too with a hint of a smile in her eyes that sent an electric surge through Andy. With renewed hope, he charged on as she advanced toward him to meet him halfway.

"I thought I'd missed you-.", Andy said knowing that he couldn't do what felt natural at the moment.

"No, I would have said goodbye.", Pamela said, taking his hand in both of hers.

Andy looked beyond her to the couple that was now keenly studying him and asked, "Are those your parents?"

"Yes."

Andy scoffed at having to lead the logical course of conversation, "So, maybe can I meet them-? You know-? _Hello, I know your daughter-. Lovely girl…_ "

Pamela smiled and shook her head, "No, not right now. Things are complicated. It looks like I'm going to be an officer-."

"You too, eh?"

Pamela nodded, "Me too. We both need to focus on that."

Andy shrugged and fought the sensation he had felt before only in football when despite his best efforts, he knew he was in a losing struggle.

"I can multi-task, you know."

Pamela's arms slipped warmly around him and her soft lips grazed his left ear to whisper, "I'm sure we'll see each other around. Take care of yourself until then-. Okay?"

She escaped Andy's grasp without him putting up much of a fight. The strength had left him by that point.

No, things weren't quite _okay_.

 **Brasilia, Brazil**

The Zentraedi were just _gone_ , making the annex of Abilene Sector amongst the easiest won _and_ most disquieting fights Lt. Whilite had been in to date.

As the platoon leader supervised his Rangers' removal of the slain malcontents' bodies from "Three", he was already thinking forward to the ultimate step in the day's activities- the after action report. Having a number of them now for Captain Nguyen's review, Whilite had learned that the shorter and more directly to the point the better.

With this in mind, Whilite had been working mentally at how to succinctly capture his platoon's activities this day.

He had come up with a thought or two.

 _We assaulted the building._

 _Some malcontent stayed to figh, some retreated._

 _The ones who stayed, died._

Of course, as Whilite knew well enough- accurate as his three-line report was- Regimental and Divisional Command liked a _little_ more detail.

So, to appease people who wore oak leaves, eagles, and stars, he and all of the other officers and NCOs involved in the assault this day would provide more details. Numbers of hostiles encountered and killed, relevant details on their defensive posture and fighting abilities, the quantity and sophistication of booby traps and IEDs.

 _Blah, blah, blah…._

Whilite would shovel it on like a kid padding his high school history paper until it felt "full" and then he'd pass it on to Captain Nguyen who would distill it for Regiment, who would distill it for Division, and so on and so forth.

Some things, Whilite had found, were just done for the reason that that was the way that they were done.

The process of removing malcontent bodies from the combat area was a good example of this. The average male Zentraedi warrior, even in a micronized state was around two to two-and-a-half meters tall and generally weighed in starting at around 120 kilos. Carrying just one corpse that size out to a collection area like the one that had been established on the sidewalk before Whilite could be burdensome for three of his human Rangers.

Carrying out the number of corpses that generally accumulated in the course of an action was downright exhausting.

Still, and despite the fact that the Zentraedi would leave their dead to rot as had been evident during the taking of any number of areas of Brasilia that Whilite had participated in, it was customary for the enemy dead to be _carried out_ and not simply dragged out by their heels. There was of course always the self-aggrandizing justification of being better than the enemy by showing the respect to their dead that they did not show themselves, or the broader human notion that even a hostile sentient being was worthy of respect.

 _Yada-yada-yada….._

In the end it just boiled down to that it had been the way that the bodies of the enemy had always been handled, and that was the way that they would continue to be handled.

Nevermind that the "respect" afforded to the alien dead ended the moment they reached the burial pit.

A digital photo would be taken of the slain malcontent's face, associated with an assigned serial number (and in some cases a name if one could be determined) and these would be stored away in some Army database never to be accessed again. By the time of the upload though, the body would have already been cast as one of a layer into a burial pit that was actually more of an open crematorium, treated with plasma napalm, and hurriedly incinerated before decay or disease could manifest.

How many of the "honored dead" had ended up this way? The only evidence of their ever having existed being a digital photo that no one looked at, and a ten by three meter trench somewhere lined in the blackened glass that resulted from a plasma napalm fire.

 _Fuck `em._

That had become Whilite's prevailing attitude- about the dead at least. He had never nor would he ever (or so he swore to himself) allow the mistreatment of a wounded or captured malcontent. But as far as the dead went, _fuck `em._

So if, as he stood there he were to hear the suspicious thumping that might or might not be the head of a Zentraedi corpse on stairs as it was dragged down to street level by the heels-. Well, that was a sound that he could argue was easily missed after the deafening effects of urban combat.

Even if urban combat had not been that day what it had been only a week before.

"Hey, El-Tee-!"

Shocked as his eardrums had been by the fight, Whilite was able to distinguish Staff Sergeant Byerly by her voice as well as her customary call without looking.

"Yeah?"

"The Old Man's coming up from the basement- just giving you the heads-up.", Byerly warned.

Whilite looked at the line of twenty-something bodies that had been lined up like cordwood on the sidewalk before replying in the grim humor he was finding came all too easily these days, "I hope we don't get accused of not playing nice with others-."

"Yeah, well they started it.", Byerly asserted as she offered her lieutenant a cigarette.

Whilite had had two in the time he had been supervising the collection of hostile kills and declined a third with a shake of his head. It wasn't that he didn't want another cigarette- the nicotine rush would subside before long if he did not kindle it- but rather he had noticed his inclination to smoke had increased dramatically during his time in Brasilia. Sometimes it wasn't even the need for the nicotine- sometimes it was just the fidgets- the need to do something with his hands to kill the nervous energy.

Cigarettes, Whilite knew, were not a responsible solution to nervous energy.

–And wouldn't it be a shame to survive the Army and The Zone to be done in by cancer?

"You hear the word on those tunnels, El-Tee?", Byerly asked as she lit a cigarette; clearly not as concerned as her lieutenant with the responsible use of tobacco.

"What about them, besides them being underground?"

Byerly gave her snorting laugh that Whilite now knew was as much a release of combat tension in these circumstances as a reflection on his stabs at humor. That was fine too.

"No-. They're sending Tinks and Woodchucks up the tunnels and-."

" _Tunnels_?"

"Yeah, they found a second in the basement here in another storage room. Anyway, they go across the street there, and probably across that street over there into the basement of _that_ building-."

" _Rattenkrieg-."_

"What?"

"Nothing important. You were saying?"

"Well, what do you want to bet that we're going to find tunnels going out of those buildings too? Hell, I'll bet they would have tunneled clear out of the city if we'd given them long enough."

"Great-.", Whilite said heavily, "They've discovered Steve McQueen movies-. The thing I don't get is why they were so eager to leave today? Hell, they've been fighting for every slab of sidewalk concrete for months, and then they just walk away? _That_ one is what gives me the red-ass."

Byerly nodded, "Sure, yeah- me too. What's the saying about rats and the sinking ship?"

Whilite looked around at the brutalized but still salvageable city as far as he could see it, "Are we sinking?"

Byerly shrugged, "Word has it that they asked that on the _Titanic_ for quite a while too. Maybe _they_ can tell us-."

Whilite followed his ranking sergeant's gaze back to the line of dead aliens.

"No, I like that they're doing what they're doing now. Absolutely nothing."

Byerly shrugged and took the opportunity to seat the butt of her rifle again in balance on her shoulder, "Maybe-. But I'm sensing some pursuit patrols and a few snatch-and-grabs in our future. Roast turkey MREs for everyone's Christmas dinner."

"That's why we joined the Army, Sergeant."

Naib Subedar Singh allowed his Cyclone, again in its faster motorcycle form, to roll to a stop just short of an intersection of what in Brasilia's recent, more peaceful past would have been busy city streets. The other three men he had detached to ride with him similarly came to a stop keeping adequate spacing that a surprise rocket strike from a malcontent who might be laying in wait for just such an opportunity would not take all four men out.

Singh swung the visor of his helmet up and felt the warming morning air wash over his face. With it came the smell that never vacated an urban combat area- the smell of smoke, of dank building interiors opened to the outdoors by the smashing of windows and exterior walls, and the smells of garbage accumulated and sewers no longer functioning properly.

All of these smells and the pitted, pocked, and scarred appearance of every building and street to be seen through a thin haze of smoke gave firm sensory testimony to the fact that Brasilia was a city in the throes of struggle.

But there was no struggle here now.

"Probe Five no contact.", Singh said to the CP and other Gurkhas of C Company who he knew to be listening.

Hours before, the malcontent Zentraedi who had bled blue-green every square centimeter of Brasilia they had lost to RDF and ASC forces for the past three months had simply packed up what they could carry and had left. Bloody skirmishes had developed along their rear lines during their withdrawal, but they had gone without so much as a shot fired to hold ground.

Prudently with the vastly outnumbered force that he had, the RDF operational commander had swiftly shifted gears to brace his units against a counter-attack that could have come from any or many points with the weight of an unexpectedly large malcontent force.

The counter-attack had not come though.

Rather the Zentraedi proceeded to do exactly what it had appeared they were doing from the first moments of their movement. They walked north to the boundaries of the city of Brasilia, into the outskirts, and were continuing on out into the open country beyond.

Though the mass Zentraedi movement had been observed by UAV and helicopter gunship alike through its progress, Singh and his men had held the perimeter for two hours before Lawman granted them permission to exit their lines to probe further out into what had been at sunrise firmly held malcontent areas of Brasilia. What Singh had seen personally and what the other hastily formed probes had reported was what Sing had expected to find: nothing.

There had been a number of stray dogs and cats whose keener senses and instincts had told them that all was clear and safe for them to come out from hiding places and forage for food. Similarly, the lowest denominator of humanity had been seen on occasion scrounging at their own peril the former fighting positions of malcontents that now stood abandoned.

Most strikingly though, and to Singh's genuine surprise, there were no Zentraedi hold-outs or die-hards.

He, from the moment he had made the first request to lead up a probe effort into the vacated regions of Brasilia, had expected to find no _organized_ resistance. As with every force though, organized or otherwise, there were always those who would not abandon the fight. They were the deadly nuisance that laid booby traps for no purpose but malice, and who carried out their own personal guerilla wars long after their comrades had departed.

There was none of that here that Singh could see or sense. No random rifle or rocket shots, no IEDs triggered as he and his men had passed on their cycle mounts.

Indicators seen by all who had served in the city that the malcontents were increasing their cohesion and organization of efforts seemed validated in this moment. Whoever had been organizing had planned and executed a complete withdrawal from Brasilia- of this Singh was sure though it could not be confirmed yet.

"Probe Six- negative contact hostile or neutral.", reported one of Singh's subordinates, "Where are they?"

The rapid patter of distant rotor blades quickly rose into thunderous keynote and mixing echo off of concrete canyon walls as a flight of Lakota transport helicopters rushed north under the escort of gunships. Command could not commit the entire occupying force of Brasilia to chase the retreating malcontents, but someone was clearly being dispatched to put boots on the ground and monitor from weed-level.

"Back to our lines.", Singh instructed, ending for all intents and purposes the probe operation.

The thought of returning to an area that on a map was designated as firmly under friendly control should have been comforting. For some reason, Singh found it lacking that quality now.

 **RDF Headquarters, Yellowstone City**

Commander Anne Weitzel could not say that a calm or supreme confidence had washed over her prior to the briefing she was now concluding.

Whether it was in person, or as it was now by video teleconference, there was no getting around the awareness that the Military Chief of Staff, the Joint Chiefs, as well as the President and his ministers and advisors were staring back at her and listening intently to and scrutinizing every word.

Yet Weitzel spoke with as much assurance as anyone in her particular field of intelligence could speak- with the weight of _plausibility_ behind her. Earlier that morning she had argued before General Breetai the possibility of some kind of coordinated malcontent action in The Control Zone of South America to _possibly_ include participation in some form by rogue Zentraedi fleet units. All had been based on coincidental pieces of hard battlespace intelligence bound together by carefully considered conjecture- in truth, what _any_ bit of intelligence analysis was.

Weitzel's confidence and the weight of plausibility had doubled in the twenty minutes before the briefing she now gave by a number of events in The Control Zone that were still playing out.

Six population centers, including the fiercely contested city of Brasilia were showing signs of abandonment by the malcontents. Additionally, in a geographical region that averaged between fifty and a hundred RDF and ASC casualties per "good" day from skirmishes and random attacks on military posts- not a single malcontent-initiated action had taken place in 24 hours.

The _possibility_ that Weitzel had argued to Breetai of cohesive malcontent action in The Control Zone was seeming less _possible_ and more _probable_ now.

The role of rogue fleet units and the enigmatic undecipherable signals was still a matter of question, but in Weitzel's mind and in her final (and now to some degree improvised) form of her briefing, it was ominous enough to report to the command authority.

"-Again, I stress that while the sum of this information can support no firm conclusions, the _possible_ implications cannot be ignored and should be met with an appropriate level of preparedness."

Weitzel had briefed enough incredulous audiences to spot the signs of what she liked to call _vulture swarm._

It was that pause after she concluded when all of the persons with interests to protect went into a hover waiting for someone to begin the dive assault on the bearer of the contrary or conflicting position. The opening attack was not always confrontational, but it opened the door and allowed easy escalation to that point.

What Weitzel had not expected was that the first "swoop and peck" on her briefing would come from the President.

Rudolph Valtarven, native of Switzerland and born in Geneva was a model of what was becoming typical of post-Holocaust, United Earth statesmen and politicians. In his mid-fifties, he had lived enough in the world before The Robotech War to gain experience in and know the functional mechanics of the world.

He had enough experience to be the bridge for the voting population back to a happier, more prosperous time that most could still remember while still having the vigor to fight the struggles required to bring that world back. Weitzel had voted for him herself based on his promises of measured and sustainable growth and recovery of the world's infrastructure, economy, and defensive capabilities.

That vote probably meant little to Valtarven now as he opened with a direct question.

"And what is the _appropriate_ level of preparedness, Commander?"

Weitzel felt the blood drain from her body and could tell by the expression of General Shiloah that it was a visible reaction as well.

Unexpectedly but equally welcome, General Breetai took the opportunity to answer the question for his paralyzed subordinate from well down the chain of command.

"If I may field that question, Mr. President-.", Breetai said, knowing that only the President or one of his cabinet ministers had the authority to say otherwise, "-Commander Weitzel has done her portion of the work at hand by bringing this information to our attention and framing it in one possible model of interpretation. I believe it to be a strong model. It is the responsibility my office and my subordinates to propose the best course of action for your approval, sir."

Valtarven, perhaps recognizing that his question to Weitzel had been unfair given her responsibilities allowed the question to shift to the Military Chief of Staff, "So the question stands, General Breetai. What is the appropriate level of preparedness?"

Breetai contemplated the question for a moment- a _brief_ moment.

None at the table in his briefing room, nor on any of the ends of the VTC doubted that Breetai knew instantly the correct _military_ posture to assume- he had been making those decisions on a grander scale than had ever been known by a human being for easily three times the length of life held by any human at the table.

The moment's pause Breetai required was to temper the pure military solution enough as to make it acceptable in his new world where the military answered to the civilian.

"We cannot know the minds of the enemy or their full intent.", Breetai admitted as a beginning, "We can interpret- I believe we _should_ interpret- the sudden, coordinated withdrawal of malcontents in The Control Zone from population centers as prelude to another action. This action may be localized or it may span South and Central America- but I feel it will be centered in The Control Zone. I believe that there is strong evidence that there is an external influence at work through the coded communications that Commander Weitzel detailed, but the nature and scope of that influence and potential involvement is undetermined."

"We can speculate on these things to no end, but what we cannot do is ignore that in terms of pacifying and stabilizing The Control Zone- today's events have presented us with a unique opportunity."

"I advocate that _preparedness_ mean that we take advantage of the opportunity we have been given and at the same time taking steps to offset what is _possible._ "

"Which would involve what?", Valtarven asked, understanding the logic but not the implied course.

"Immediate movement of all Atlantic carrier groups into the region to support future activities for an opening."

"I also strongly urge the movement of as many air and ground assets into the area as we can safely draw from other areas. The possibility of creating strong bastions of security and bases of operation for the future cannot be ignored.."

Valtarven nodded his understanding and asked, "Do we have sufficient quick-reaction forces available to affect this?"

"Yes, Mr. President-.", Breetai replied confidently, "We have four division strength units based out of the North and Central American Sectors that can begin to deploy within twenty-four hours of the go word."

"There are an additional two Marine amphibious rapid response units on station in the Caribbean presently with the option of drawing an additional two from the west coast of the African Sectors"

"We can follow on as needs demand with any number of combat-ready units from our choice of sectors. All will require coordination of course, but the basic operational plans already exist. It will also require at least the consultation of non-UE regional governments in South America, and of course The Army of the Southern Cross. Given the existing level of mistrust, that political obstacle may be larger than any material one we face."

"And also is something for _my_ office to be concerned with primarily, General Breetai-.", Valtaven reminded the MCS, "- _Should_ we decide to pursue this course. And what of Commander Weitzel's assertions of possible involvement by rogue Zentraedi fleet units? Increasing a presence in Brazil will hardly answer that threat."

Breetai replied without hesitation, "A possibility we must consider, Mr. President. Fortunately, the cumulative number of rogue units we project to be operating in the proximity of Sol, and their cohesion is a level that is manageable by the REF Fleet."

"Simply by deploying the units we have on stand-by in dock presently would significantly improve our planetary defense posture from such a threat."

"If Commander Weitzel's theory that a rogue fleet action would be conducted in support of a terrestrial operation in The Control Zone is to be accepted, I would suggest deploying our ready fleet units inside of the lunar orbital path. Minimal detachments could provide additional security for Mars bases and outer system stations."

"These are all actions we can take without elevating the planetary defense level. However, if you would consent to-."

Valtarven quelled the request before it was fully made, "No, General Breetai- escalating the planetary defense level necessitates the activation of any number of civil action plans that while benign would create a level of fear in the population that I do not see as warranted by what I am hearing from either Commander Weitzel or you. World confidence is still fragile, and panic is easily started and will as easily spread. That kind of reaction on a planetary scale could be more dangerous than any flare in The Control Zone- extraterrestrial participation or not."

Breetai phrased his protest carefully, saying with the greatest of care, "And while I understand this, Mr. President, I cannot stand by without at least advising action as I have outlined. In a real sense, we have the opportunity before us to gain a real advantage in The Control Zone and shorten the struggle by perhaps years."

"Coupled with the unknown factors of the meaning of these sudden malcontent mass movements in The Control Zone, and also the relative significance of the coded transmissions- I see no choice but acting."

It was President Valtarven's turn to be silently contemplative for a moment. As was true of a good card player so was it true of a good politician- his expression revealed nothing of his thinking or his intentions. All had to wait for him to voice them in his chosen words.

"An opportunity for gains, true. Do these gains warrant the worldwide disruption we might cause though, General Breetai?"

Breetai was non-committal, but forcibly so by the lack of facts he had to work from, "One just cannot say, Mr. President. Possibly."

Valtarven said, "And your order to the military forces to be on twelve hour recall notice essentially has the bulk of our Fleet personnel either on their ships or at least on the GS-95 station?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"And you can activate the rapid response units for deployment to The Control Zone without elevation of the planetary defense level?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Valtarven allowed his expression to reveal his decision at this point, and also to reveal that the decision was not to be questioned, "Then I authorize you, General Breetai, to take the steps you see fit to prepare for contingencies short of elevating the planetary defense level."

"If new information sufaces, I will naturally reconsider- but at this time I cannot consent to that magnitude of social disruption."

"I should like follow-on briefings at eight hour intervals though."

Breetai nodded both his understanding and agreement. He could not pull out all of the stops that he would have liked, but the President's orders allowed him to take his actions right up to a clearly defined line and that granted him a great deal of latitude.

"Yes, Mr. President- I will keep you informed myself."

Valtarven, rose from his chair in his cabinet room saying, "Thank you then, that will be all."

The VTC screen went to a blue screen with the UE Presidential seal at the center.

Now there was work to be done across the entire spectrum of the military services.

Still standing where the President's question had frozen her, it took Weitzel a moment to recognize that her boss, General Shiloah had joined her- more for emotional support that she clearly needed than anything official.

"Anne, you look like the cat that ate the canary"

Weitzel shook her head, "Maybe-. But I feel more like Pandora. –I'm a little afraid of what's going to come out of the box."

Shiloah put a hand on her shoulder as reassurance of having done the right thing, "Whatever comes out is what would have come out anyway. Raising the alarm isn't the same as being responsible for the outcome."

It didn't feel it to Weitzel, but she knew the statement to be true.

 **Edwards City, the Mojave Desert,**

 **California**

A Christmas tree was supposed to brighten any room no matter how bare the tree or gloomy the space during the holiday season.

The tree that towered in decorated, plastic splendor in a corner of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club was no slouch in its adornments, having decorations both genuine and improvised from all corners of the Earth. But like everything in the hodge-podge establishment; it looked conspicuously out of place.

There was sincerity in the tree though, in the placement of its ornaments that ranged from several hand-painted, blown glass balls that as rumor had it had come all the way from a hamlet in southern Germany, to the less exotic but no less cherished nutcracker soldiers created by painting faces and uniforms onto old-style wooden clothes pins.

The decorations ranged from the traditionally festive to the innovative as well. The custom of Roxanna setting out a tree had been started before Christmas tree light strands had become available again on the market, so Lyle had made his contribution by simply wiring together eighty or so electronics switches that he had scrounged from a heap of equipment on base that was to go to the recycling plant. A misuse of military property to be sure, but an ingenious way to give the tree a red, green and yellow twinkle.

The star- that was another story that neither Roxanna nor Winters would discuss at length.

While neither would confirm, or even entertain the possibility- someone had noted once that the star that now shone in gold metallic luster atop the tree had appeared about the same time of the scandal on base in which Major General Butler had been unofficially and unceremoniously demoted to brigadier general with the theft of a strikingly similar decorative star that had hung as one of a pair outside of his outer office.

It was a curious coincidence.

One could have argued that the tree had been made ugly in the attempt to make it festively beautiful. Others- those regular to The High Desert Pilot's Social Club- argued that it was the only tree fit to stand in the bar as it was just as mismatched and patchwork as everything else around it.

And in comparison to the unpainted boards and plywood that made up most of the floors and walls, it did achieve the goal of bringing some color and cheer to the establishment.

Color and cheer was present and spreading despite the chill from the desert night that invaded the bar through its many gaps and small openings- but it was the color and cheer that came from the beer tap and the battle mouth. Gecko had been released from the hospital late that afternoon. With his wife, Catherine, at his side he obliged the pilots of several squadrons with his harrowing tales of combat and hospitals as he was bought drink after drink by others.

Present also with Knight Hawk Squadron and no less enthusiastic to celebrate were the Vigilantes, whose pilot, Maj. "Corkscrew" Ethan, had passed a recovery milestone in that the doctors said he now had a chance of returning to active duty rather than the previous party line that his service career was probably over.

This was a far more appealing subject to drink to than the unfortunate Capt. "Humbug" Wilcock whose only passing had been into the next world.

Even Capt. "Binky" Hollingsworth who had been the source of so much drama earlier in the day when he had been forced to eject from his damaged Valkyrie just short of the eastern shore of Rogers Lake was present and in good spirits despite a badly twisted ankle, a bruised face, and the aches associated with the ribbing he got at losing his aircraft from the other pilots.

Sitting at his customary table in the same rickety chair in which he was always found, Winters was very conscious of what was going on around him. Sometimes celebrations were just celebrations, but other times they were a veiled effort to bleed off frustration through forced jokes and too much alcohol.

It didn't take a trained therapist to know the difference either, or to understand which type was going on at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club tonight.

It was for that reason mainly- that the frustration felt by the pilots was only his by proxy in his grounded state- that the tumbler glass sitting beside the bottle of bourbon on Winters' table had remained empty. He hadn't earned the right to drink in this company tonight.

Winters also worked to convince himself that he was abstaining to keep a clear head for the thinking he was sketching out on paper, but mostly it was that he had not earned the right.

"I don't know what worries me more- when you're swimming in the bottle or when you haven't touched it."

Winters flinched with a delayed start caused by his executive officer speaking to him while he was so deep in his own thoughts.

"Jesus, Freddy- you damn near put me into my grave-.", Winters grumbled as he tapped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray already filled.

Dalton dropped himself into the chair next to Winters and set his half empty glass of beer on the table. It had clearly not been his first of the evening and was equally unlikely to be the last.

"I just go by Freddy these days-.", Dalton said, "-I dropped the Jesus, but I'm still pretty amazing."

"Yeah, glory be unto thee in the highest-.", Winters replied as he began to scratch at the paper again with a pencil point that was growing blunt again.

Dalton picked up his beer to draw a long swallow from it and then as the intoxicated often do motioned with the glass as though it was an extension of his body.

"What are you doing anyway?- I mean if coloring books are what you wanted for Christmas, I'm going to have to do some of that emergency, last minute shopping, but-."

Winters snatched the paper off the table and held the side with his work up toward his friend.

"What's this look like to you?"

Dalton studied the pencil rendered, amorphous blobs that occupied the center of the page bracketed and punctuated by groupings of squiggly lines.

"-Uh…. Two porcupines fucking?-.", Dalton said randomly grasping at straws, "This is one of those ink blot things isn't it?- You've been around Dr. Keopel too much Jack-."

Winters shook his head, "Be serious for a minute, Freddy-."

Dalton raised his hand defensively, "I know, give me a second, I can get this-."

Winters laid the paper down on the table and reoriented it for Dalton's vantage point. After scratching an "N" into what was the top, he explained, "It's The Outlands- Crater Range, to be exact- see?"

"This has nothing to do with my mother then?"

"Not a bit.", Winters said letting his XO's unwillingness to engage in the conversation slide as he moved his pencil over the improvised map, "Over here is where Gecko took that SAM in the chops-. And here is where Corkscrew and Humbug got theirs-. –And that chap from China Lake a week before that-."

With each recollection came a mark on the map.

"-And then, if we start to add in contact points-.", Winters continued, making a half dozen more marks that indicated geographically where malcontent AA elements had engaged or attempted to engage RDF air patrols of The Outlands.

Seeing that his boss was seriously pursuing a point, Dalton set down his beer and put significant effort into trying to follow.

"Do you see what I'm driving at?", Winters asked motioning over the map with his pencil as an exhibit of evidence.

Dalton shook his head, "No, not at all, Jack."

Winters moved the pencil over the paper again like a magician making a conjuring gesture with a wand over his upturned top hat.

"All of the contact points form a _perimeter_ around Crater Range-.", Winters explained, drawing a faint circle that connected the points of contact he had marked.

"A perimeter around what, Jack?", Dalton asked, the logic that Winters seemed so bent on escaping him.

"That's a good bloody question.", Winters agreed, "But whatever _it_ is, it's somewhere inside of Crater Range-."

Dalton laughed as he lit a cigarette and gave the map a doubtful second glance, "I don't know, Jack-. I mean, there's _nothing_ in there-. I mean nothing to sustain life anyway. There's no water, the soil is barren and radioactive to boot. Heck, even Zentraedi would begin to suffer from radiation sickness eventually."

Winters nodded, "I know. And _they_ know that _we_ know. That's why there hasn't been an Army patrol in there since the general survey after The Holocaust. Or look at it this way-. We fly around the outskirts of Crater Range on our circuit of The Outlands. Sometimes we get painted, sometimes we get shot at, and each time we blow the ditto sods off the face of the Earth for their troubles. An Army unit comes in, does a general sweep of the area, BDA, after action intel, the works, and then they pack up and leave and everyone compares reports later before it's all filed away. –Right?"

Dalton nodded, "Yeah, pretty much-. But again, Jack, it's because there's _never anything there._ "

"And don't you find that just a little queer?", Winters asked, "A dozen or so Zentraedi blokes first get a hold of some sophisticated piece of anti-aircraft weaponry, and then they decide they're going to camp out in the middle of nowhere on hopes of taking a shot at a passing CAP? No, that's not a _little_ queer, that's _Liberace_ queer-. No, it doesn't figure in my book."

Dalton shrugged, "Jack, read the paper, or turn on the news- _everyone's_ taking it in the ass these days from Buenos Aires clear on up to us."

Winters tapped his finger on the map again, "True, but _why here?_ Why around the one piece of The Outlands that even the Army doesn't want to go? Why not at one of a thousand points where we could be engaged on any given day? _I_ think it's because they're keeping in proximity of something that they want to hide, but that they're hiding in the last place we want to look. They just let us clobber them a little from time to time to let us think we're accomplishing something and we don't look any deeper. It makes sense if you think about it- in an odd way."

Dalton sighed heavily and scratched his head as he looked at the map, "It makes sense _maybe_ , Jack. You could look at this from a hundred different ways-."

"Like what?", Winters asked, "Spin one out for me-."

Dalton groaned, "-No, I've had too much to drink and you clearly haven't had enough. Can we look at this again in the morning?"

Winters shook his head, "No, if you're too blotto then I'll just walk through it with Ganyet-."

Dalton laughed, "Well, good luck with her too- she's been French kissing Comrade Smirnov all night."

Exasperated, Winters snarled before comprehending the inherent flaw in logic, " _Isn't anyone sober here?!"_

"Yeah, you.", Dalton replied, "Which brings me back to my point-."

"Hey, Jack-O!-"

Winters and Dalton both looked up from their conversation, but it was Winters who caught a right-cross punch across the left cheekbone that tumbled him heavily out of his chair and onto the floor, jarring the table, and splashing Dalton with his own beer before the glass too toppled to the floor and shattered.

Voices silenced across the bar, allowing the ancient jukebox with its crackling speakers to be heard without the din of conversations for the first time in hours.

Winters picked himself and his wheel cap up off the unfinished wood floor to find Lt Col Neil "Dingo" Duggan, commanding officer of the 1404th Werewolves standing in the same spot from which he'd sent Winters to the floor, and still in the stance that one might have expected to see a boxer of the 1930's keeping in the heat of a fight.

"Hello, Dingo-.", Winters replied before his fist came around like a lightning flash and sent the other pilot down heavily on the chairs of the next table, cracking the seatback off of one as it broke his fall to the floor.

From the floor, the felled pilot laughed heartily and said with an Australian accent thick enough to be seen, " _Christ, Jack!- You still hit like a Sheila!"_

Winters placed his cap back on his head over a reddening face that was going to bruise, took the two steps to where the other pilot was righting himself, and offered him a hand to his feet among the splintered wood and broken glass.

A collective sigh of relief was felt more than heard across the bar before conversations resumed.

"You know, this is why we can't have nice things-.", Dalton muttered as he picked up the intact tumbler Winters had not used yet, the bottle of bourbon that had not been opened, and Winters' swagger stick and map from the floor.

Dingo dusted his aviator's jacket and flight suit trousers off without apparent improvement and touched his face that was going to appear similar to Winters' in the morning.

"Hey, Freddy-.", Duggan said pulling a chair out from the table where Winters and Dalton had been sitting and dropped into it without thought of the chair he had just destroyed, "You still keepin' this one outta trouble?"

Dalton settled back into his seat, the rush of the moment having rendered him nearly sober he found, "Sometimes. It's a group effort really-."

Roxanna emerged from behind the bar to examine the damage done. A scornful glare passed alternately back and forth between Winters and Duggan as she assessed the loss of a chair and a beer glass.

"I didn't start it this time-.", Winters said preemptively proclaiming his innocence.

Duggan quickly backed him, "He didn't. But he's going to buy Freddy and I a beer on top of paying for that chair-."

Roxanna shook her head and snorted, " _Him pay?-_ That'll be a first!"

The proprietor without another word motioned to Rio behind the bar to bring drinks as requested.

Rio, who at some point during the limited melee had found the time to bring a French knife out of the small kitchen in the rear set the piece of cutlery down behind the bar and began to fill two glasses similar to the one that had broken with beer from one of the taps.

Dingo sat with a boot heel on the edge of the table that he used to rock himself on the rear two legs of his chair, the shoddy furniture creaking all the time. Winters opted to light himself a cigarette rather than kick the other pilot over and add to the discomfort of their habitual manner of greeting.

Rio appeared tableside with the two glasses of beer, setting them down in front of Dalton and Duggan before reaching for the bourbon with the intention of pouring for Winters.

"No, I'm fine-.", Winters said, placing his hand over the top of his glass.

Rio then put her hand to the red, left cheek of Winters face, which he winced away from and repeated, "-I'm _fine_ -."

Duggan laughed at the coddling Winters was receiving.

"No you're not, you're ugly as a water buffalo's ass!"

Rio turned a hateful glare on Duggan who let it roll off of him, taking it as understandable.

"And it's good to see you too, Rio. I knew someone had to be keeping old Union Jack Winters patched together."

Rio withdrew to the bar- possibly to get the knife.

Duggan looked around to find that his squadron had already found familiar faces and were into their first round of drinks. All was right with the world as he raised his glass to the two senior officers of Knight Hawk Squadron.

"Cheers."

Dalton tipped his glass back in reply before drinking, Winters simply released a long trail of smoke from his lungs into the air.

Duggan looked suspiciously at Winters' empty glass, asking, "Aren't you afraid of getting hurt when you fall off the wagon?"

Winters glanced at the bottle that he very much wanted to start emptying and said, "No, I tumble with the best of them."

Duggan found his own cigarettes and struck a gold lighter to light one, "Thank Christ, I thought you'd joined a program on me-!"

"Rehab is for quitters.", Winters said bluntly, "No, I'm just working something out before I start killing short-term memory."

A genuine spark of interest shone in Duggan's eye, "What kind of something?"

Winters found where Dalton had put his hand-drawn map back on the table, and with the entire upper left corner wet with beer still used it as a reference to explain.

"Something that has to do with why you're here. Freddy thinks I'm off my rocker, but-."

"I don't think you're off your rocker-.", Dalton countered, "I'm just not a hundred percent convinced."

Duggan cut in, "Well, I _do_ think you're off your rocker, Jack, but that's what makes you fun-. Go on, I'm excited already."

Winters continued, "I'm thinking that there's more to the fire we've been taking lately. I think there's something going on inside of Crater Range. I just can't prove it, or even get my executive officer to buy into the idea-."

Dalton rolled his eyes and set his beer glass heavily on the table, "Oh, don't be that way, Jack-. I'm just mulling it over right now. Plus, we have a JSTARS pass through that area like- every seventy-two hours- and they've never intercepted a transmission coming out of that area, or the slightest hint of electronic activity within the range. If the dittos were in there, we'd see them coming and going, or at least get some kind of emission to say they were in there-."

"Point.", Duggan said, awarding a credit to Dalton's argument.

"Yes, a JSTARS every seventy-two hours _exactly_ \- like clockwork.", Winters countered, "I think they can pick up on a pattern if we keep it up long enough, Freddy. Give them a little credit for intelligence."

"Counterpoint.", Duggan said, awarding this time to Winters before tossing in, "I know- let's just get in there and thrash the bushes to see what comes out."

Dalton picked up his beer again and hunted for his cigarettes, "Yeah, except we are developing a nasty habit of losing people when we get in too close to Crater Range."

Duggan shrugged in the way that only one coming from the outside of the problem and its consequences could, "An even better reason to go in and stomp the buggers. Count the Werewolves in."

Dalton's cigarette hung unlit from his lips, "Just like that? _Count us in-?_ "

"Sure. Why not?"

"Well-.", Dalton argued, and finding only one reason not to proceed, said, "No one's particularly motivated to get shot at unnecessarily."

"They're shooting at you already.", Duggan pointed out, "That's why we're here. Let's just go in there and give it back to the bastards. We get paid to get shot at. Might as well make it worth our while."

Winters found himself wanting the bourbon bottle more than ever as he said, "Another thing is that _we_ aren't as many as _we_ were a few months ago."

" _Ohhhhh-_ that.", Duggan said, understanding instantly, "Yeah, I heard you had your wings clipped for shooting up Brazil. Good on you for that one. Those ASC fuckers needed their asses paddled for the shit they pull."

Dalton and Winters looked with surprise at Duggan .

"What?", Duggan asked, "You think we don't hear anything down in Victoria? Christ, pilots are worse than a knitting circle. No secrets."

Winters reached for the bottle, "Well, since my dirty laundry is aired- I think I'll have a drink."

"There's a man!", Duggan praised, "Just point us in the right direction. We'll take lots of gory pictures for you."

"We'd still need Ganyet on board.", Dalton pointed out, "And a plan, and buy-in from Arnie-."

" _Little details-._ ", Duggan said, "Let's focus on the carnage right now."

Winters gave a small laugh, and in tapping the collar of his leather jacket that was conspicuously missing his fighter wings said, "Be careful around here, Dingo- thinking like that lost me these-."

Duggan turned in his seat to find Mumuni in the mixed crowd of at least three squadrons now, drinking with pilots from his command that she knew, "So, Ganyet's running the show, eh? She's reasonable. We can swing it with a good push."

"If you say so.", Dalton laughed.

"Don't underestimate my charm, Freddy.", Duggan said.

Winters rubbed his cheek before taking a swallow of bourbon, "I can attest to that."

A disruption rippled through the congregation of pilots and other assorted military in the bar, drawing the attention of Winters, Dalton, and Duggan. Winters first instinct was that an argument was flaring into a brawl- a distinct possibility since the exchange between he and Duggan earlier had put the proverbial blood into the water.

Only the room did not erupt into a storm of punches and kicks. Rather, glasses were set down where a table or bar space was available as service personnel opened a path and stood to attention.

Colonel Mumuni and Major General Arnold Butler waded through the gathering of pilots from his wing whom he motioned vigorously to stand at ease as he passed.

He made a visible effort not to see which of his pilots were present or how much collective imbibing was taking place. Another squadron not represented in the company would be flying patrol tomorrow, and tonight Nellis had the duty of manning the scramble alert watch- but there was always a level of discomfort involved in having a commander see his combatants in an intoxicated state- which a good many already were.

Seeing Mumuni lead the wing commander in their direction, Winters was instantly certain that Butler's visit had something to do with him- though he could not think what that something might be.

Winters led the others at the table in a rise to their feet that was intentionally slow to allow Butler time to stop them before they had a chance to complete the effort. The general, dressed down in civilian attire under his flight jacket whose two stars on the shoulders were the only indication that he was both military and a flag officer, walked quite casually up to the table and stopped just short.

"Mind if I join you?"

"In a drink, or our various conspiracies?", Winters replied.

Butler laughed, "Let's start with a drink. Conspiracies always sound more appealing after a few."

"By all means then-.", Winters said, motioning to an empty chair that Butler took, while Mumuni sat beside Dalton in another.

Having quickly spotted and recognized the wing commander in her establishment, Roxanna was at tableside with the "good" scotch and a glass for Butler before he had started to warm the seat he occupied.

"General- good to have you back."

Butler allowed her to fill his glass, replying, "Always a pleasure, Roxanna- I should get out here more often, but I have a wing to run, and I think I'd scare off the other fish."

"Not this bunch.", Roxanna assured Butler, noting for herself that the tempo of conversation throughout the bar was picking up again. Customers were mindful that they were in the presence of a superior officer, but there was a level of comfort that was spreading and most importantly, they were still drinking.

Butler noticed the broken chair that Duggan had done in with Winters' assistance and asked with caution, "Quiet night?"

Roxanna laughed, "With Jack _and_ Dingo under the same roof?.. Hell, I'll be glad if I have a roof tomorrow."

"Let me know if you have a problem then.", Butler offered, "I can dock their pay."

Roxanna nodded her appreciation and set the bottle of scotch down on the table before Butler, "You just got your drinks on the house then."

"Much obliged.", Butler said genuinely, and nodding toward the tree that occupied the corner of the room, "Can I have my star back too? It sort of completes a set."

Roxanna's face blanked, "Not sure what you mean, General- but enjoy your drink."

Winters shrugged off the feeling of having been tossed to the wolves by his assumed friend- he knew he was tough on property from time to time. He looked back and forth between Mumuni and Butler several times waiting for an explanation before curiosity got the better of him.

"So, I take it this is a social call?"

"Let's call it a fifty-fifty mix.", Butler said, inhaling the rare luxury of well aged scotch before having a nip at it, "Or, you can just blame the whole thing on my Christmas generosity."

Winters raised an eyebrow and his glass, "I'm pretty sure we're not up for a pay increase. Care to elaborate, sir?"

"Colonel Mumuni stopped by my office this afternoon around the time the Werewolves were pulling into town and pointed out that we're importing talent-."

Duggan raised his glass at Butler appreciatively, "Thank you, sir-."

"-It's a figure of speech, Dingo, don't get too full of yourself.", Butler said before continuing on his original line, "-We're importing talent without using all that we have right here."

"If this is about singing in the base holiday pageant, sir-."

"Shut up, Jack.", Butler said, "Ganyet argued her ass off for this, so show her a little respect for her effort even if you don't have any for yourself."

Butler reached into his coat pocket and produced an oval case slightly larger than a ring box that he placed on the table and sent toward Winters with a flick of his forefinger.

Winters caught the case as it reached the edge of the table and placed it next to the bottle of bourbon without hesitation.

"And just like that, all's forgiven?"

Butler shook his head, "No, not forgiven or forgotten- but your flight status _is_ at _my_ discretion, remember. My top pilot says she needs every swinging Richard to pull the rope, including you- so I'm going to give her what she needs. But don't think that means that you're not on probation."

A moment passed before Winters reached for the case and opened it to find the same fighter pilot's wings he had surrendered three months before, every bit as beaten as he had remembered them.

"Don't be an asshole, Jack.", Mumuni advised, "We're doing you a favor too."

"A big one.", Butler added, "And if I feel the need to walk out of this bar after this drink- they go with me."

"Since you put it so tenderly-."

Winters pulled the fastening pin free of the box's velvet and foam backing and affixed the wings to his collar through the same holes the pin shaft had occupied before.

Duggan grinned in disbelief, "Well, I'll be damned- I _have_ lived long enough to see Jack do something intelligent."

"We'll see.", Butler said raising his glass, "Cheers."

All drank with a moment of silence following.

The silence hung until Duggan said, almost conversationally, "So, Jack has this idea for a seek-and-destroy sort of thing that he wants to run by you-. I didn't hear it all, but in general the potential for a little vengeance and great violence was spectacular. Jack- you're on."

Winters nearly spilled the contents of his glass on himself with the surprise of Duggan's words.

"Very subtle, Dingo- _thanks._ "

" _Subtle_ is my middle name-. Well, actually it's _Albert_ , but-."

"What kind of seek-and-destroy sort of thing?", Mumuni asked.

"The decisive kind- if I'm right.", Winters replied, then motioning around the room, "And with this lot, I think we have just the sticks we need to pull it off. And like Dingo said, if nothing else- there's a good chance at having a little pay-back."

Mumuni set her glass down, " _What_ exactly, and _when_?"

"The _when_ is as soon as we can wring the booze out of everyone and get the plan filed. The _what_ is pretty straightforward.", Winters said, putting his bourbon down without finishing it and pushing the glass away, "Just bear with me, and I think you'll understand."

"Or fall out of your chair laughing.", Dalton said presenting a second option, "I'm not sure which camp I'm in yet."

"Let's say we were convinced and got on board.", Butler said in a tentative voice, "How soon are you trying to do this _spectacular_ thing?"

Winters replied with certainty, "I can have this lot dried out and ready to be briefed in six hours. How quickly can you make the administrative and coordination thing happen?"

"I'm a major general, Jack, I can make things happen pretty quickly.", Butler stated, "But these pilots are getting about as sauced as a church spaghetti dinner-. There are regs about that sort of thing, or don't you remember?"

"Only if you're committed to having seen this.", Winters countered.

Butler looked around. Pilots were drinking- buzzed even, but far from drunk. There was an air of determination about them to reach that state though.

"And you're just going to say the word and they'll stop?"

"Something like that."

Winters looked to the bar's owner who had resumed her place behind the counter.

"Roxanna, be a love and cut the chaps off, would you?"

" _What?_ "

"Cut them off-.", Winters repeated, "Get coffee brewing, and start settling up tabs. Do it for me?"

Roxanna's displeasure at the prospect of losing such a good night's business was clear, "Does this mean you're paying too?"

"Yes, fine-. I promise you'll make double on the back end if you help me now."

Roxanna shrugged, "Sure- I mean, what the hell? Why should a bar sell liquor?"

Turning back to the table, Winters found Butler looking sublimely amused.

"You really are serious, aren't you, Jack?"

"Serious as the plague.", Winters assured him.

Butler laughed, "Okay, even if I were to decide to look the other way on flight regs- _which I'm not saying I will-._ You still need to sell me on your idea."

"Prepare to be sold then-."

"I'm waiting."

Turning the map he'd drawn toward Mumuni and Butler, Winters began.

"Granted, this is a bad drawing of Crater Range, but I was marking points of enemy contact when I started to notice something-."

170


	3. Sunset

**Chapter Two**

 **Sunset**

"I know what I have done-."

"I know what I am doing and will not beg forgiveness or attempt to make feeble excuses."

"My only reward now is to one day have my grave dug deep in the ashes of all that The Robotech Masters created and once ruled-."

\- Darius

 **UES** _ **Hyperion**_ **,**

 **258 kilometers southeast of Cuba**

"Takeo, Sunny-. Five hundred meters out. Call the ball."

Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura "Takeo" Kusunoki made a final check of his approach and alignment to "the boat" as his VF-1S Valkyrie plummeted through the glide path at full flaps and full throttle.

Despite the innovations of Robotechnology and technology in general, the process of bringing an aircraft back aboard a conventional aircraft carrier had remained the same. The pilot was guided in to visual range by Primary Flight Control (or "Pri-Fli") until he or she had eyeballs on the boat. At that point it became a well-practiced matter of maintaining the correct airspeed and attitude while keeping the "meatball" projected byt the Fresnel lens of the carrier's optical landing system on the center mark of the aircraft's HUD.

These tasks accomplished, the aircraft would meet the carrier in "the trap"- a 12-meter span of the angled recovery deck across which were spanned the four arresting wires of which the aircraft's arresting hook would engage one, bringing it to a complete stop in 30 meters.

Simple enough.

Simple enough so long as it was daylight, that the seas were calm, the wind speed and direction constant- and of course if the pilot had the nerve and presence of mind to overcome the sense that he was intentionally crashing into the steel deck of a warship- which in fact he was.

The sea was anything but predictable though and a pilot had to be able to bring his or her plane back aboard the boat in any combination of adverse conditions which Kusunoki had on more occasions than he cared to remember.

This morning the sea was kind. The sun was low at the pilot's back, the visibility good, and the pitch and roll of the boat minor and gentle at most.

"Takeo has the ball.", Kusunoki said as _Hyperion_ filled his windscreen and he was able to make out fine details in her deck and the equipment and crew that manned it. He straightened and stiffened his spine to prepare as the carrier's deck seemed to rise up to meet him.

As seams and dimples in the deck plates became visible at 130 knots of closure, Kusunoki could see and determine by experience that he'd snag the prized #3 wire. Any capture that brought the plane back aboard safely was a good one, but catching the third wire to rear in sequence- the wire naval aviators were trained to aim for- meant a better assessment by the ever-watchful Landing Signals Officer (LSO), and a shorter time in review sessions.

Tires kissed steel deck and no sooner did Kusunoki feel his spine compress than he was thrown forward into his shoulder harnesses as hook and hydraulically balanced arresting wire cooperated to bring his fighter, _Oka_ , to a halt.

Kusunoki chopped the throttles back to the rear stops and looked to find "The Blues" (the aircraft handlers in their blue jerseys and blue helmets) awaiting his signal.. The lieutenant commander quickly shut his engines down and gave the succession of hand gestures that told the deck crew that his aircraft was safe to approach and be moved.

As a deck tractor rolled out from the edge of the starboard deck to join up by tow bar to _Oka_ 's forward landing strut, the ordinance handlers- or, "Red Shirts" rushed out in two pairs to insert the safety pins back into the missiles that occupied the full hard point racks on the Valkyrie's wings.

Kusunoki popped his canopy and began to release his safety harnesses as the deck crew quickly cleared his fighter from the flight line. In addition to the remaining three airborne ships from his squadron element that had flown CAP with him, Kusunoki had been aware of no less than half a dozen other aircraft lining up in the queue to return to the boat.

That was flight ops on a carrier.

Aircraft were constantly launching and being recovered, and when the pace was at its fastest these events were rarely spaced by more than sixty seconds. It was the most maticulously choreographed and dangerous set of interrelated activities still to be found on the face of the Earth that did not involve live weapons fire. It had to happen 24x7, and it was all done by enlisted men and women who on average were just over half Kusunoki's age.

As an artificial sea breeze generated by the ship's movement swept out the sterile smell of filtered air from Kusunoki's cockpit through the open canopy and the tractor driver backed his aircraft precisely into a slot of open deck space to be disarmed, the pilot wondered whether the activities aboard the boat would go on long without tangible fear of direct attack.

Seventy-two hours earlier, _Hyperion_ had completed a six month patrol of the Caribbean Sea, supporting directly the RDF-Army operations in Venezuela and Brazil. Her duties in these areas had ended in the practical sense with the arrival of her sister-ship, UES _Phoebe_ and the normal customs and ceremonies involved in being relieved that had been hosted in _Hyperion'_ s senior officers' ward room.

It had been a well-prepared, "dress whites" event that Kusunoki had passed through as quickly as he could. It had not been an aversion to the event, as par for course the ship's galley had pulled out all of the stops in their offerings and the good booze was being served. No, rather it was an eagerness to have the last pleasantries of relinquishing the operational area to _Phoebe_ and UES _Atlas_ (that had been with _Hyperion_ on patrol for three months and still had three months of duty remaining) and to turn northeast for Charleston and home.

Even Vice Admiral Coleridge had appeared anxious to turn support duties over to Vice Admiral Osborne so she could order Captain Swensen to get _Hyperion_ underway- which she would have done as soon as _Phoebe_ had received the last of her launches carrying her officers. Coleridge _would_ have done this, only Fleet had been less expedient in issuing _Hyperion_ sailing orders to return home than the crew had been desirous of carrying them out.

The orders had come late the next day.

So it had been that _Hyperion_ and her crew had been en route to Charleston with no hope of reaching home by Christmas, but in good spirits nonetheless at the prospect of being with family again for at least some part of the holiday season- that was until the call had come.

Well out to sea and east of Florida, _Hyperion_ had received the puzzling orders to reverse her course and return to the patrol area she had run circuits in for half a year.

Admiral Coleridge's address to the ship's crew had explained only that the orders had come from the very top and that only focused execution of duty was the way to shorten the delay to a well-deserved homecoming.

The effect of the orders had been crushing, naturally.

Morale had dropped so heavily that Kusunoki had been sure that he had heard the keel plates breaking out of the ship. Still, watches had been stood like clockwork, patrols flown, and the ship made ready to rejoin battle.

Kusunoki snapped out of his thoughts as the trap caught Knoxville from his flight and brought her Valkyrie to a screeching halt on the deck just a little under forty meters away. The Blues and Red Shirts awaited their signal and then rushed out to perform the same services for Lieutenant Harris as they had for Kusunoki roughly a minute before.

 _"Bad Times are Coming…"_ , warned the motto of The Stormy Petrels written in gothic type on scrollwork beneath a grim reaper riding a diving black bird that trailed streaks of flame from its talon-bared claws.

The artwork on the rudder of Knoxville's fighter seemed to have a particular relevance to Kusunoki today.

Bad times _were_ coming.

All aboard _Hyperion_ could feel it, though in true nautical tradition refused to speak of it except for in the exaggerated, oracular way that old salts and hard-shells used to craft stories for the amazement and intimidation of "wogs".

One could not put a finger on it, but there was something at work besides the explanation from up the chain that forces were being massed to counter rising malcontent activity in The Control Zone.

Perhaps it was the Army of The Southern Cross?

The ASC certainly sensed bad times coming, though possibly not from the malcontents. They, having nothing more than a coastal waters force that could not pass in any respectable way for a "navy" had nonetheless not been oblivious of the movement of three additional carrier battle groups into their sphere of operations.

Furthermore, they had reacted as Kusunoki would have expected them to react: with an increased defensive posture. The fact that CAP was being flown with air-to-air weapons only, and with double the number of ships aloft per patrol was evidence that Admiral Coleridge was responding with an unspoken message to the wall of ASC fighters that shadowed her battle group's movement into the theater.

Concern and precaution were warranted, as Kusunoki well knew. In his CAP this morning alone, his Valkyrie's target identification systems had shown rotating squadrons of the ASC's newer Corsair III fighters standing just outside of their radar range from _Hyperion_ and her fast support ships. This was as close as _Hyperion'_ s CAP would allow them to come, and as far back as they dare drive them without making the appearance of threatening ASC airspace.

Still, both sides were aware that the Corsair IIIs could be equipped with any number of high-speed, sea-skimming ASMs, and that they were only a short sprint from being within range to acquire and engage the battle group.

The battle group and the ASC did not have each other by the throat per say, but both had to be comforted by the discomfort of being within each other's reach.

It was only natural; Kusunoki had to remind himself- that the ASC _had_ to interpret the increase of carrier battle groups in the waters off of South America as a possible threat. And they reacting to that threat gave just cause to the RDF Navy to act defensively as well. It was all _natural_ if one overlooked the millions of hostile aliens that regarded the RDF and ASC as slight variations of the same enemy and behaved accordingly.

It was all dizzying if one thought too much about it- so Kusunoki did not.

Kusunoki had no desire to fire on another human being. He had been forced to come closer than he liked several months back, and that still troubled him. There had been no shots fired then, and with the grace of divinity the ASC was as unmotivated to fire on the RDF as Kusunoki was to fire on them.

Hopefully the issue of _sanity_ did not enter into the equation though- as the ASC had proven itself clearly insane on many occasions.

 _Don't think about it._

LCDR Kusunoki realized that he was no longer alone and looked over to find that his plane captain, Senior Chief Petty Officer Gerard had not only affixed a ladder to the side of his fighter but had ascended it to ascertain why the pilot was not making his escape after being confined to the cockpit for nearly five hours.

"You alright, Commander?", the senior chief asked with a discernable measure of concern in his voice and as he inserted the safety pin back into the ejection seat's control handle.

"Fine.", Kusunoki said, handing his helmet over to the NCO as he rose from his seat, "My mind was wandering, that's all.

Kusunoki followed Gerard down the ladder rungs to the deck where he received back his helmet. The deck tractor was moving Knoxville's fighter into place beside his where in moments the ordinance crew would strip it of its weapons as they were doing to his now, making it safe too for transfer down to the hangar deck.

"That's the good thing about my job, sir.", Gerard said with genuine appreciation, "Damn if I'm not too busy all the time to think too much."

Kusunoki was already thinking ahead to debriefing as he said with a distant voice, "Be thankful for small favors, Chief-."

"Aye sir-."

Kusunoki walked up the fuselage of his aircraft with the intent of going forward to "the island" where he'd enter the labyrinth of stairwells, hatches, and passages to make his way to the locker room and showers. He passed his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the Valkyrie and over the cherry blossom nose art and the _kangi_ of his native language that said _Oka._

"Oka", or, "cherry blossom" had seemed an appropriate name for his ship to Kusunoki, borrowing from the famous haiku in which the warrior compared himself to the flower falling at the peak of its perfection. He had also chosen the name with a lesser level of irreverence as "Oka" had been the name given to the rocket-powered flying bombs that had been intended to provide the kamikaze of the Second World War with the sword needed to slash back the marauding American fleets that were slowly strangling the home islands.

Kusunoki could not help but think of this reference each time his fighter slammed into the deck upon return to the boat. Nor could he ignore how the same American sailors battled by the kamikaze had blunted the psychological edge of the Oka by discovering the phonic similarities to and renaming the weapon with the Japanese word, "Boca"- meaning, "foolish".

The latter, given the tensions with the ASC in the face of the malcontent threat seemed somewhat more poignant to Kusunoki now.

Vice Admiral Nicole K. Coleridge surveyed the whole of the Caribbean Sea as it was represented on the holographic projection table at the center of CIC. Various other display windows hung open, drafted in light and suspended in the air over the map supplying information at a glance to the flag officer and her staff - but it was the map itself that held her attention.

UES _Phoebe_ was completing the southern Caribbean leg of her patrol circuit that essentially followed the coastal line of Venezuela from its east-most point in Atlantic waters to its west-most in the tropical sea. At that point the second of the pair of carriers always on the circuit would be at the beginning of the leg and she would reverse herself along a more northerly route to repeat the process again.

Sailing this pattern kept an "on line" carrier's air wing within reasonable distance from most "hot spots" in The Control Zone, and able to defend the critical oil production and refining facilities in Venezuela. During the "off line", northerly portion of the cruise, the ship and crew had the needed time to take on supplies, affect repairs as needed, and generally decompress from the frenzy of round-the-clock operations that was life aboard a carrier.

Some stresses were accepted as part of service on a carrier, such as the long watches and crowded living conditions. Others were not and were the peculiar products of human behavior.

The ASC took every opportunity to show their displeasure at having a warship flying RDF colors so near to "their" territory.

Normally this meant heightened air patrol activity within ASC airspace between a carrier's position and critical ASC installations and infrastructure. Sometimes this meant air patrols that came perilously close to the carrier itself, warranting fighter intercept to watch and warn off the watchers. And always there was a nearby ASC air presence shadowing at a distance when carrier air elements ventured inland for air support duties.

This, to Coleridge, was the oddest aspect of the overall situation.

The ASC made a point of keeping an unblinking eye on the patrolling carriers off the South American coastline, but had never denied access to the continent's interior to the carriers' air wings for planned operations or even the more ad hoc calls by RDF Army units for air support. The ASC was known to "route" RDF air elements through their airspace- "escort" them even- but never deny access.

It was odd to Coleridge, but only on and just below the surface of the behavior. Part of it, one recognized, was that it was the same brand of inflated bravado displayed by schoolyard bullies who depended on the threat of violence to be enough to prevent an actual need for violence to preserve their position and standing.

It was a bluff that neither side wanted to have called.

The other part, less psychologically complex, was that whether it was an ASC bomb or an RDF one- a bomb dropped on a malcontent or a malcontent position was a bomb dropped and one that benefited both Terran forces in the region.

Allowing the RDF to operate under supervision yielded considerable reward for the ASC with minimal risk.

Vice Admiral Coleridge normally did not care much about ASC motivations in the neurotic and paranoid things that they seemed to do as standard practice. She was concerned with their capabilities and how that affected her operational obligations.

ASC motivations now seemed increasingly relevant though as _Hyperion_ would soon be joining the Venezuela circuit, and according to the map display she pored over and communications with their commanders- UES _Vulcan_ and UES _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ (a venerable _Nimitz_ Class carrier and legacy vessel of the U.S. Navy) would be patrolling the northeast Atlantic coast. Never had there been such a carrier presence bracketing ASC territory, and both the ASC and the RDF were aware of it.

Coleridge could only hope that diplomatic and military liaison efforts to justify and pave the way for the increased naval presence were as swift as the movement of the carrier forces themselves. Though she had relinquished her role as "on scene commander" to Vice Admiral Osborne days ago, Fleet had made the decision to put her back into the top slot once _Hyperion_ was back on-station, meaning that by default any tensions and ugliness with The Army of the Southern Cross would be hers to shoulder in the region.

At least this time it could be forgiven if the flag officers neglected the ceremony of the event.

There were other concerns that required Coleridge's more immediate attention now. Most pressing in her mind now was her own flagship's need for underway replenishment, or "UnRep".

When _Hyperion_ had left the Caribbean days earlier for home, she had done so with her aviation fuel bunkers at the halfway mark, and without the restocking of her magazines. As her sailing orders had outlined a direct course to home port, it had been hardly a critical issue and no one had wanted to delay homecoming by taking on supplies that would just have to be unloaded upon reaching Charleston.

When _Hyperion_ had been ordered to turn about and make best speed back to the Caribbean patrol area, there had been no time to perform the delicate dance of running two massive ships side-to-side for hours while the transfer of weapons and fuel from support ship to carrier was accomplished. It had been Coleridge's intention to put _Hyperion_ actively into the patrol circuit as soon as possible, cutting her support craft loose near Cuba, and then rendezvousing at the western end of the circuit again for UnRep.

This decision had been made based on the intelligence information that had been available from The Control Zone at the time. Since then, each successive report had painted an incrementally dire picture of the situation in the area. It had become less of a question of _if_ _Hyperion'_ s fighters and attack bombers might be called upon to intervene on the part of human interests, but _when._

Depleted munitions and aviation fuel stores suddenly took on an emptier and more critical feeling.

Coleridge did not second-guess the decision she had made at the time she had ordered her command to turn south again- it had been made based on the best information available. There was no arguing though that she was at another decision point. She either had to slow and delay her entry into the circuit to UnRep, allowing her the luxury of a ship full of stores should a need to join battle arise- or: to join the circuit now and postpone UnRep- hoping for a clean, first pass of Venezuela.

The agitated ASC and the increasingly aggressive posture they were displaying was a factor that also could not have been anticipated, but was a real one to be considered now.

"What's your thought, Jan?", Coleridge asked of Captain Jan Swensen who stood beside her at the chart table, thinking many of if not the exact same thoughts without question.

Swensen's gaze drifted south of _Hyperion_ 's position to where one of her Cat's Eye Recon airborne tracking radar aircraft was monitoring the rotating presence of a number of ASC squadrons.

"A tough call.", Swensen admitted, "Our Valkyries can hold their own and even do double-duty if they have to, so long as the bullets and bombs hold out. If we join the battle line now, we're gambling that we won't need to send our Adventurers inland extensively."

" _So_ , I'm asking you what you think.", Coleridge said, probing for more than the obvious.

Swensen ran his fingers along the line of his jaw and over the short-cropped beard of strawberry blonde hair he kept before replying, "Frankly, Admiral, I'm more concerned about the ASC and the kind of craziness they may be inclined to pull if something should provoke them than I am of not being able to sortie ground-support missions. We have three carriers on station. If we should have to pull out of the line, we can do that with minimal disruption."

"I prefer that to thoughts of having a half-dozen ASMs come screaming in at us while we're joined at the hip to a tender."

Coleridge took a half-step back from the table, saying in a decisive tone, "I agree. We can UnRep north of the western end of the circuit and top off on all we need. Our support ships can then re-supply at a depot in Panama and be back on station before we need them again. We just need to keep our fingers crossed that the lid stays on The Control Zone for the next few days."

"I'll put on my lucky underwear, ma'am."

Coleridge laughed, "Do that-. I've already doubled up on mine. Signal the support ships with orders. Then get me Vice Admiral Osborne on the line-. I'll assume the OSC role at fourteen-hundred and let him start to breathe again."

"Aye, ma'am."

 **The Amazon River Basin,**

 **Brazil**

This was the last deep breath before blows began to be exchanged.

Action Commander Kevtok had seen far too many battles to count, and in truth had never seen the point in or had had the desire to count them, but could for the most part remember in each of them a moment like the one he was experiencing now.

It was the moment when all of the major planning was concluded and a course of action set. It was the moment when only the small and final details of preparation were being attended to by subordinates.

It was the moment when all that was left was to wait- for the _next_ critical moment.

And _that_ moment was almost at hand.

Like most moments preceding great action, Kevtok had arrived at this one as much by chance as by any element of planning. This was not to say that there had not been purpose and planning behind his original mission and journey to this alien world now some half a year ago- but like many events in the many campaigns he had participated in, the mission had changed- _evolved._

Action Commander Kevtok had gone into the deep sleep of stasis aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory with the expectation of waking up aboard the specially constructed Re-Entry Transport Pod designed especially for the mission and with the sole purpose of reconnoitering the alien world where Zor's Battle Fortress had ended its chase across the stars.

His orders, given to him directly by Supreme General Krymina, had been clear and concise. He and his small security force would observe and assess the indigenous alien population's military strength and capabilities while at the same time providing protection for the team of specialists who would gather critical, on-site meteorological, geographical, and biological information needed to stage an assault on a planetary scale. To a lesser extent, Kevtok had been expected to discretely engage and interrogate the marooned warriors and remnants of Dolza's norghil forces for whatever intelligence benefit could be gleaned.

All of this was to be done with the dual purposes of acquiring The Battle Fortress to serve the Te'Dak Tohl in Supreme General Krymina's revolt against the weakened Robotech Masters, and to begin that central effort by first defeating perhaps their greatest and sole remaining warlord- Breetai.

This had been the objective of Kevtok's mission, and the operational guidance he had set out under.

As Kevtok had experienced before though, the mission he had set out to complete had not been the one he had actually found himself executing.

The deviation from plan had begun with the random, almost inconceivably improbable intercept of his transport by an alien fighter patrol. The damage sustained and emergency landing that followed that was scarcely better than what would have qualified as a "crash" had claimed the lives of most of his Serhot Ran security force and survey team of specialists.

Initial prospects of success had been grim given these setbacks. Even Kevtok's ability to communicate with The 7th Grand Army had been substantially reduced and he himself had had moments wondering whether he and the team's survivors would be simply awaiting the arrival of Supreme General Krymina without having accomplished their mission- or worse; would become permanent captives of this alien world should Krymina's inclination to invade change.

The discovery, also by random chance, that this alien world was viable for the growth of The Invid Flower of Life- the energy source that drove all Robotechnology- had changed everything though, both operationally and fundamentally. While the question had been raised whether Zor's Battle Fortress still existed in a state where it could serve the Te'Dak Tohl, the presence and flourish of The Flower of Life made this world a strategic asset that would be sought by The Robotech Masters and Invid alike- making it a resource that the Te'Dak Tohl would require to battle both.

Even in his limited communications capacity, Kevtok had been able to convey this discovery to Supreme General Krymina, and the nature of his presence on this alien world had changed.

The 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl was coming still- yes- but the operation could no longer be a clumsy smashing of the world as the Zentraedi were so capable of. This would have to be an invasion, and after that- an _occupation._

Kevtok was still required to gather intelligence, but as much as possible he would now have to prepare this world for invasion.

At first, the notion of three Serhot Ran officers orchestrating any sort of credible preparation for a planetary invasion had seemed ludicrous at best and had been a daunting proposition to Kevtok. The possibility of having a substantial effect on the overall outcome of Te'Dak Tohl operations had seemed remote in the extreme, and more likely to be inconsequential at best.

This had been Kevtok's first impression and one he had guarded from his few remaining subordinates.

This also had been before he had discovered and fully explored the potential of the vast resource that had been in place on this world for some time, awaiting an effort to give them purpose: the norghil.

The norghil, the _expendables_ \- marooned for years already on this world had been thought of initially in Krymina's original plan to be little more than additional collateral damage in the seizure of The Battle Fortress had suddenly gained potential for advantage in Kevtok's mind as the nature of the operation changed to occupation while minimalizing damage to the world.

For whatever reason, the indigenous species of _humans_ had not finished the work that they had begun with the defeat of Dolza's forces. Beyond sparing the lives of their former enemies, these creatures had actually made attempts to indoctrinate and assimilate the norghil into their own society.

In some cases, such as Breetai, many of his commanders and millions of his warriors, the human effort had achieved a measure of results. This had clearly produced in the alien mind some unfounded hope that the success could be broadened and peace achieved through a reconditioning of the warrior caste.

What the humans had not recognized and what Kevtok had quietly admitted to himself that he had not fully appreciated was the depth and hold that the warrior identity had on the norghil. It was not to be as simple for the humans as washing the norghil of the battle-gained blood that so justly stained them.

The norghil, or at least those deserving of the name _Zentraedi_ had no interest in being cleansed or indoctrinated.

They were followers of The Warrior's Code, and all that the human attempts to assimilate them had accomplished was to provide them the skills to survive in a hostile environment and the time needed to become useful in adherence to their duty. It would not be duty to The Masters this time though, but to the Te'Dak Tohl.

Action Commander Kevtok had been skeptical at first.

How could the already inferior warrior caste that had further deteriorated into a trained rabble be recovered and effectively directed into useful service that they would have had to suspect meant only further servitude under a new ruling regime?

Kevtok had been concerned that even the intimidating lore so carefully crafted around the Te'Dak Tohl would be insufficient to align any significant number of norghil behind him and make them submit to his cause.

Greater than this concern though had been Kevtok's surprise that the recruiting of norghil in the region that he and his unit had found themselves stranded in had required almost no intimidation at all. Perhaps it was the simpler intellects that The Masters had provided the warrior caste with, or maybe their need to be governed- but the norghil had flocked to the opportunity to serve once again.

Kevtok had discovered that the apparatus to governing the norghil in great numbers had already been in place. Though far from being inspection ready, the officers, sub-officers, and warriors who had been stripped of all of the formal trappings of service had still retained a basic, military structure. Units were governed by officers and controlled by sub-officers- only now the scavenging for supplies had replaced the battling of Invid.

Again, by chance, Kevtok had happened across the right command element at precisely the right moment to allow him to assert himself and the will of Supreme General Krymina by proxy. Initial sacrifices had had to be made, and some discret follow-on purges as well, but military rigor and discipline was quickly restored once a common purpose was identified.

There had been challenges since- many of them- but none that had not been overcome dutifully by the marooned norghil who had survived Dolza's command.

Gratifying and inspiring as this was to Kevtok, there was a disturbing undertone to all that had been achieved in a season's time- or to the point, what the _norghil_ had achieved under his direction in a season's time.

Was this the same warrior caste that Kevtok had spent most of his life stalking and subduing by orders of The Robotech Masters?

Were these the same organic automatons that had only been fit to hurl in multitudes against the Invid onslaught who now, deprived of all that seemed necessary to achieve success had positioned themselves stealthily and superbly for participation in an attack that the _humans_ showed no signs of even suspecting?

Kevtok could think of innumerable occasions on this world where he had only been able to identify _what_ needed to be done to achieve a particular objective in a series of critical objectives. These were circumstances where the _how_ of success had come from norghil officers, sub-officers, and in some astounding cases, from _warriors_.

Norghil, _expendables_ , had in small groups received additional training appropriate for the actions necessary from Te'Dak Tohl and then had themselves propagated this new knowledge to comrades dispersed across the region.

It had been norghil that had identified human installations where the weapons and supplies needed for the approaching fight could be found in quantity, and in almost every case it had been norghil who had planned and executed the raids, collected the material, and distributed it through intricate networks that they had established.

There was no question by now that Kevtok was at the head of it all and in command, but he was responsible for the success in the same removed way that Supreme General Krymina was responsible for the successes of The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl.

Kevtok provided the vision and high-level direction.

The staggering success belonged to the norghil.

This Kevtok found troubling.

He did not fear the norghil- their enthusiasm to serve had surpassed questioning in Kevtok's mind some time ago.

What Kevtok found troubling was that preconceptions he had long operated under that did not bear up when applied to the norghil company he now kept.

If proof of a theory was in it validation or discrediting, then what was to be said of the norghil based on what he had seen in a season's time?

What could be said of that theory when reviewing the dirtied, but otherwise fully functional ten Regult Combat Pods that squatted patiently in wait under the cover of dense jungle not a hundred paces from Kevtok's flightless Transport Pod.

The Regults, like thirty-seven others scattered across the region had been _repatriated_ back from human storage facilities a piece at a time by norghil raiders. They had been then carried great distances and reassembled with only minimal tools by warriors who had been reduced to a micronized state by the indigenous population after their stranding.

And these were _expendables_?

Had they been Te'Dak Tohl, their initiative and ingenuity would have been recognized and commended

These warriors though- stripped of everything that made them Zentraedi but their own flesh- had carried The Warrior's Code inside them and would soon be ready to carry the fight back to the aliens. And so perhaps not _everything_ Zentraedi had been stripped from them.

Their struggle had been long and arduous- and Kevtok had to grudgingly admit a level of admiration for the norghil discarded by The Robotech Masters. They would have the reward that many of them sought - to be able to join battle again under the Imperial standard.

They would have that dignity again, and the satisfaction of seeing enemy who had determined them vanquished fall- in part- by their efforts. The norghil would be allowed to demonstrate to the _humans_ that no Zentraedi was defeated while their was breath in the warrior's lungs or a pulse through their arteries.

What awaited these norghil beyond that was questionable.

Supreme General Krymina's position on their disposition had been clear. At best, the remains of Dolza's command were _contaminated_ by their exposure to the aliens- at worst they were infectious.

Their condition could not be allowed to spread into the ranks of the modified norghil who now served the Te'Dak Tohl and Supreme General Krymina.

And weren't these Zentraedi who had been moving out to staging areas and preparing for battle by Kevtok's command still only _norghil_?

How many of their kind had Kevtok killed directly, or helped in killing indirectly?

He had never bothered to count.

Kevtok forced these thoughts from his mind.

There were too many issues of substance left to be attended to, and still the very real possibility that his blood and that of his surviving team would be spilled in the fight to come.

 _The fight to come-._

If Action Commander Kevtok did not think too deeply on the subject, he could still convince himself that he had a measure of control over things. He knew, despite Sub-Commander Fral's assurances that he did not.

Fral- the top lieutenant to the slain Yeshta's unit of allied warriors and loose network of other units across the continent- had promised Kevtok at even the slightest hint of the action commander's doubt that the norghil warriors who would conduct select preparatory missions at the time of the main invasion could be trusted to adhere to the timetable and not execute prematurely.

But how could that promise be taken as solid?

It required only one small unit commander with a grudge to be impatient, or for a unit in transit to happen upon the enemy and choose to fight rather than withdraw and evade to continue on toward their assigned objective-.

And what of the Regult pilots? The warriors who over the past two weeks had been undergoing the re-enlargement process in the downed Transport Pod's functional scaling chambers to allow them to operate the machines that had been so secretively re-assembled for their use. These warriors had been deploying in their natural size for days, carrying only enough rations to sustain them and clad in little more than improvised loin cloths. Surely it would only take a human military unit to cross paths with one of these warriors for the enemy to suspect that a threat was building against them.

No, there was no real command and control element to Kevtok's plans. At best- the very most he could hope for was synchronized chaos that the spearhead units of the 7th Grand Army would be able to exploit.

Fate had now assumed command.

"Lord-."

Kevtok turned to find Sub-Commander Fral approaching him up the long, gradual rise of the small hill he stood on at the edge of the dense jungle.

Fral's burns, sustained at the time of Yeshta's assassination, had for all practical purposes healed now- though like many a warrior's wounds left clear scars that would never vanish fully.

As his burns had healed with the assistance of powerful antibiotics and a regiment of steroids, Fral had proven himself indispensable to Kevtok in terms of his organizational and planning skills. His early utility had been blunted somewhat by the nearly constant pain from his wounds, but with a constant supply of human intervenes painkillers it had been managed well enough to allow Fral to perform his duty and justify Kevtok's trust.

Fral had been indispensable- of this, there was no question, but Kevtok was not without his concerns. It had begun weeks earlier when the last of scabs had given way to the new, discolored flesh of scars.

Kevtok had first noticed the tremors one late night when he and Fral had been receiving the report of a returning small reconnaissance force that had been dispatched to observe a human outpost in the jungle days earlier. Inwardly, it had alarmed Kevtok to see Fral visibly quaking and mentally distracted as these were familiar signs of The Withering- though Kevtok knew this to not be possible as Fral was norghil.

But it had to be true-.

That night, and approaching a critical time for coordinating support actions for the invasion, Kevtok had considered the possibility that he was on the verge of loosing his link to the marooned norghil forces that were critical to his plans.

Only the next morning and unlike Te'Dak Tohl warriors afflicted with The Withering, Fral's symptoms had vanished.

It was puzzling, but Kevtok had been too engaged in planning and preparation to give Fral's infirmities much thought.

That was until the next episode that appeared to be slightly worse, but that again seemed to lift from the sub-commander with time.

There had been several such occasions like this since that Kevtok had seen- now that he was aware to be looking for them. And in that time, he had come to understand that it was not The Withering at all.

Kevtok had come across Fral taking from stolen human supplies the pain killers he had relied on early in his recovery that had allowed him to function. With his wounds healed and the antibiotics and steroids no longer required, Kevtok did not understand how the pain was persisting.

It had taken the explanation by a norghil sub-lieutenant in a chance conversation that Kevtok had overheard for him to understand that some human medical supplies had strange effects on warriors. The bits of the conversation that Kevtok had overheard had told him that the painkillers could sometimes become a necessary part of a warrior's daily rations even after his or her wounds were healed. There were even cases where these medications had suddenly become toxic and that warriors had been found dead with many spent units of these pre-measured dosages.

Odd, but clearly a shortcoming of human medical technology.

It was unfortunately also a shortcoming that was affecting Fral, and by extension Kevtok's operational capabilities.

He had since monitored the situation, and had others around Fral monitor it for him.

The sub-commander had continued to function and was fit for duty- now.

"Yes?", Kevtok asked, studying Fral without overtly doing so. There were no signs of distraction or of the tremors- he could be trusted to be reliable for several hours by the signs that Kevtok had become adept at reading.

"A medium-range security patrol is returning, Lord, with a report of observing heightened micronian military activity in a designated target area. The unit commander requests an audience with you personally to make his report.", Fral said with appropriate urgency, then added, "And as you requested, I must inform you that Lieutenant Hyra has completed the re-enlargement process in the scaling chamber and will be revived shortly."

Kevtok nodded his approval that Fral was attending to even the peripheral instructions that the action commander had heaped upon him at the morning's briefing.

"Good. Is-?"

Fral had anticipated the question and replied before it had been asked, "Lieutenant Moyrt is there to attend to her, Lord."

Kevtok was aware that he would have to begin the re-enlargement process soon himself if he was to be able to participate in the actions he had been so meticulously planning. It could wait just a few more minutes though.

"Bring me to this patrol leader, Fral."

"Yes, Lord- this way."

The weighty, panicked sensation of drowning closed on Hyra from all sides and from within as she jolted into consciousness.

This was the third time in her life she had experienced this particular trauma, and barring a direct order from Supreme General Krymina herself- Hyra vowed this would be the last.

The first had been with her Awakening from stasis and her entry into the world of the living from a period of who-knew-how-long in stasis after manufacture. She remembered that the least as the initial shock had been followed by a bombardment of new but strangely familiar experiences- such as moving, hearing words and comprehending, and engaging in verbal response to simple questions as she was examined by technicians to verify functionality and readiness for service.

The second occurrence had been no less unpleasant, and in some ways more so as she had emerged from stasis aboard the transport in the middle of an attack upon it by alien fighters.

Hyra had gotten past that experience by sheer necessity.

This time- she unfortunately both knew exactly what to expect and had no urgent diversion to distract her from it.

 _Let it come… Let it come…. Let it-…_

Hyra spasmed in a wrenching agony that oddly seemed to originate in her guts as her lungs recognized that they were filled with process emersion fluid and expelled it in two great, oily heaves.

"-There we go-.", Moyrt said, his voice instantly recognized by Hyra and sounding as though she had just faded back into a conversation that she had allowed her attention to stray from.

"Welcome back."

Hyra felt the restraints in the scaling chamber release and realized that her legs would not support her. She toppled nude and slick with the same fluid that still burned her lungs and tasted thick and bitter in her mouth out and found herself caught by two sets of strong hands.

Hyra was vaguely aware that she was being laid out on a cold, smooth surface- but mostly felt dizzy. Like motion or zero-gravity sickness, she knew she had a better chance of beating the building nausea if she could lock her sight on a fixed object- but her eyelids were reluctant.

"Don't do that-."

Hyra recognized this voice and likely the owner of the second set of hands. It was Specialist First Class Breha- one of the two surviving members of the mission's survey team, and a botany specialist by occupational category. With the demise of the medical technician assigned to the mission, Breha had also taken on many of those responsibilities. It was fortunate that in addition to basic medical skills, he also had knowledge of the operation of the scaling chamber- although Hyra could think of nothing _fortunate_ about the device at this particular moment.

"Let us wash the fluid off.", Moyrt instructed, "Believe me, you don't want it in your eyes. It burns worse than anything you can imagine."

Hyra mumbled her understanding in something that might have been a word.

A spray of cold water- colder even than the metal surface she had been laid on washed over her face and head and had swept down to her waist before the shock forced her to sit bolt-upright with a surprised squeal.

Her eyes were open now.

"- _You!-_.", was all Hyra managed between gasps of breath- mostly because her dazed mind could not think of anything offensive enough to follow the single pronoun with.

Moyrt quickly handed Hyra a blanket from the transport's stores to dry herself with. The cleansing station had been wrecked in the crash and the drying cycle of the four-stage process rendered inoperative with it.

"Hate me now, but the sick feeling's gone now, isn't it?", Moyrt said, not quite offering an apology.

But the nausea was gone and most of the haziness inside of Hyra's head. She still hated him a little for it though.

Breha helped Hyra swing her legs out over the side of the metal table on which they had laid her out. The transport's small infirmary compartment looked familiar, but at the same time was distinctly different. It took her a few moments to realize the compartment was smaller- and then a few more to recognize that the compartment was not smaller, but rather that she was _larger._

The scaling process had succeeded in returning her to her original state.

"How do you feel?", Breha asked.

Hyra got the impression that the question was of the analytical and not the compassionate nature.

"-Uncentered.", Hyra said- unable to think of another word to describe the sensations through her body. She had the presence of mind to be thankful that back aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory, she had been transferred immediately from the scaling chamber into stasis- sparing her the experience she was enjoying now.

"It passes.", Moyrt said, "Give it an hour or so, and you'll be over it completely."

"Really?", Hyra asked, knowing that Moyrt had been in her exact position only two hours before.

"No.", Moyrt said bluntly and unrepentantly for making a false statement, "I'm still getting that headache in waves- and the aches haven't let up yet."

"That takes a day or two.", Breha advised having been back to his full stature for a week to oversee the re-enlargement of the warriors who were charged with piloting the reconstructed Regults, "You have to appreciate that every cell in your bodies has been multiplied and linked to return you to-."

"I think I'm going to be sick-.", Hyra said, feeling a sudden churning in her belly, "-Or maybe I'm hungry."

Moyrt laughed and offered Hyra a drinking pouch, "That's you- not able to tell one from the other. Drink slowly first-. I made the mistake of tying to eat too soon and- well, it wasn't an experience I'd wish on you."

Hyra reached for the flexible pouch Moyrt held and realized that her hand was going well to the right of target. Moyrt took her hand in his free one and guided it over to the hand holding the drinking pouch where a transfer was achieved.

"Oh, and that's another thing-.", Moyrt added as Hyra brought the pouch back carefully toward her.

Lining up the drinking tube with her mouth was proving difficult as though her brain was trying to control someone else's arm and hand.

"Your coordination and special perception may be off for a short while.", Breha said as Hyra was experiencing the reality of his words, "That will come back quickly though."

"Will I be fit to fight?", Hyra asked around the plastic tube that she had finally managed to pass between her lips.

"As long as it's not in the next five or ten minutes.", Breha assured her, "And if it makes you feel any better, you're recovering quicker than Lieutenant Moyrt did."

Moyrt glared at Breha who pretended expertly not to notice.

"Nothing new or surprising there.", Hyra muttered between sips of water that had something strangely sweet added to it. She didn't want to ask, and assumed that whatever she was being given was to speed her back to a condition more closely resembling normal.

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"You seem to have grown something.", Moyrt said, glancing down toward Hyra's mid-section where the blanket only partially covered her.

Hyra felt the surprise and terror in her expression as her head snapped forward in a downward glance.

Nothing different there.

"Got you.", Moyrt said with a malicious laugh.

Hyra fixed on her friend with a hateful glare, saying, "When I'm myself again, I'm going to _choose_ the moment you're going to really regret how much you're enjoying yourself."

Moyrt feigned a wounded look, "And to think I took the trouble of running the checks and diagnostics on your Nacht-Rau for you-."

Hyra swallowed more of the liquid she had been offering before replying, " _Great_ \- that's just more for me to do later. Where's my uniform?"

Moyrt shook his head seeing that his friend's nature had been unaffected, "Glad to see that you're still yourself."

 **Edwards AFB, The Mojave Desert**

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters had only had three "jobs" in his life, not to include the standard childhood chores for a weekly allowance as a boy.

During secondary school and through the first year of university he had worked for a regional parcel service operating in southeastern England primarily. Decent money and a good outlet for a teenage boy's energies, he had been forced to trade in an ugly green uniform of cargo shorts and matching shirt and a set of van keys for the tutor's trade in mathematics that allowed for better flexibility in hours.

And then he had been a fighter pilot- first for the RAF and then the RDF.

The commonality of all three taxable "professions" was that none delved particularly deeply into or provided the professional with insight into human psychology- beyond the experience that he or she brought with them and accrued along the way.

As a "delivery boy" Winters had heard stories- mostly tripe- of lonely female patrons, mostly living on back-country roads, being in need of packages other than the ones parcel services were paid to drop off on a doorstep. He had even suspected a customer or two on his route to fall into that category- but had never been certain enough in pegging any of these ladies to be comfortable in that adolescent way to try to _peg_ these ladies.

He had just never seen those "clear tells" that the other blokes had been so on about.

In his time tutoring math, he _had_ cracked one or two "tough equations"- but had spent most of his time trying to interpret why a paying customer and fellow student couldn't comprehend what seemed so obvious to him- and trying to apply that to a teaching approach that would soak in and stick.

Even this wasn't anything that Freud would have recognized as psychology.

The closest, Winters resolved, that he had ever come to understanding what made people tick was his the application of his current trade.

Half of success as a fighter pilot was tied to one's ability to harness and direct aggression, which included intimidation. To understand what intimidated an opponent, one had to understand commonly what people- or Zentraedi- _feared_.

Perhaps not the noblest application of the understanding of the human condition, but for Winters certainly the closest to psychology.

And one could never tell if he had really tapped into something or just been more technically proficient at the trade than the enemy- could one?

Afterall, in any _real_ scenario applying the fighter pilot's trade, success meant survival- and also usually that the other chap wasn't in a condition to critique the victor's mastery of the warrior's version of psychology.

No- and at the moment none of it could explain to Winters the conflicting emotions he felt as he approached the side entrance to the Wing Briefing Room- the only briefing room on post that could accommodate the pilots of four squadrons at once.

Winters had briefed many times in his military career. He had briefed superiors and subordinates, military personnel and civilians- once, during his RAF days he had even briefed a classroom of school children on " _Why I Like Being a Pilot_ "- though speaking to children on "career day" at the behest of a then-potential "Mrs." Winters hardly counted as _briefing_.

How many times had he briefed though?

Hundreds, surely.

 _Thousandds?-_ possibly.

Still, as the general, low murmur of Type-A personalities growing restless became audible to him at the door, Winters could not remember the last time he had felt the butterflies in the stomach he was feeling now.

Was it nerves?

 _No-._ He resolved, not nerves. That would have been a knot.

Then what?

Stepping through the door and seeing the podium at the elevated platform before the stadium-style chamber, it struck him.

 _Giddiness._

It was the feeling of perhaps not _redemption_ , but at least reclamation of the life that best suited him. It was akin to a rebirth, or perhaps as Rio's darling lucky may have understood- a beat-up, old cat exercising the option of its last life.

Whistles and howls ripped the air of the room as Winters crossed the distance to the elevated platform. Wheel cap tucked under his left arm and swagger stick under his right, he kept his eyes forward and pretended to not notice a reaction that would have been more common to Mick Jagger than Nigel Patrick Winters from a gathering.

Ganyet Mumuni sat in the front row of seats looking as worn and tired as she had hours earlier at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club, but even in this state and probably despite her best efforts she couldn't help but show hints of a smile.

Winters reached the three steps of the platform and could barely resist the temptation to run the rest of the distance as the howls, chants, and cheers continued to whirl around him.

" _-About fuckin' time you got back to work, you lazy bastard!-"_ , came an anonymous, well-intended jab from the section predominantly occupied by the Gunfighters Squadron.

Winters placed his hat and stick on the podium and plugged a pen drive into the podium's interface port to allow him access to the briefing materials.

From the area of the audience that was most rowdy, and by no small coincidence the area infested with Knight Hawk Squadron, came-

" _-Jack, baby!- If I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd SO fuck you right now!-"_

Winters tapped the microphone to find it live.

"Thanks, Vice-.", he said benignly, "Thank you for making my big return socially awkward-."

A general laugh rolled through the gathering of pilots before the noise level dropped down to nothing as attention focused on Winters and the top slide of the briefing projected onto the screen behind him.

"Welcome to-.", Winters continued before being cut short by movement through the general entrance to his left.

Major Garret "Scooter" Phillips rushed in, failing in his attempt to look inconspicuous as he crossed the front of the room to join the rest of Knight Hawk Squadron.

For those who were not familiar with Scooter, of which there were only a few in the room, and particularly of "The Ritual" that ceremoniously preceded every mission he flew- the magazine rolled up beneath his arm may have been a clue as to the reason for his tardiness to the briefing.

Winters took it in stride- welcomed the minor distraction even.

"Sit-Rep, Scooter?", Winters asked, "Are we good?"

Phillips gave the thumbs-up as he took his seat, reporting dutifully, "Good volume, good texture. We're good, Jack."

Winters nodded his acknowledgment of the good omen.

"As I was saying-. Welcome to the briefing for Operation Rapier.", Winters said feeling a sudden, warm calm wash over him as the lights dimmed and a dusky darkness enveloped all.

"I doubt I have to give any of you the background underlying this operation-. We all know why we're here."

A solemn grumble from the darkness confirmed Winters supposition without question.

Winters continued, "-So, I'll skip to my general expectations. What I want from every stick on this sortie is nothing less than wanton acts of gratuitous and unspeakable violence against the enemy-."

"We take it back to him _today._ "

A singular howl swept out of the darkness and over Winters like an invisible tsunami and confirmed for the squadron leader that all were on the same page.

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeoo watched as the ordinance handlers carefully maneuvered the cradle-lift cart transporting a fully loaded GU-11 gun pod into position beneath the center point of Winters' VF-1S Valkyrie.

As the other ordinance teams were exiting the HAS with empty lift carts whose lethal cargo now caused _Marilyn_ 's wings to droop dramatically, the "gun wranglers" (so self-named) raised the weapon slowly until the Valkyrie's mounting socket accepted and secured the gun pod's mounting spar/grip. The fighter's landing gear bent at the flex joints as their shock absorbers took on the additional weight of the last element of her armament, and the cart was quickly withdrawn and driven away under its own power.

For a few seconds under the harsh and brilliant glare of the aircraft shelter's lights, Lyle had a moment alone with these things of dreadful beauty.

Vice and Preacher's Valkyries also occupied other slots on the concrete floor of the HAS, identically armed and in all other visible respects the same as Winters' ship with the exception of nose art and tail numbers. But at the same time, _Marilyn_ had a distinct and expectant glow about her that was not all simply a matter of perception.

The VF-1S had not flown in three months; even when other fighters in the squadron had been taken off of the "combat ready" roster for standard maintenance or repair of battle damage.

It seemed that no one wanted _anyone_ to fly the squadron leader's fighter, except for the squadron leader.

In that time and to keep the Valkyrie ready, "just in case", Lyle had overseen the complete overhaul of all of her avionics, computer, hydraulic and mechanical systems- as well as the replacement of both Pratt & Whitney twin-stage Protoculture Fusion Reaction / Plasma Reaction PFR/PR-2001-B engines.

"Hands-on" as Lyle had been in what had for all intents and purposes been the complete break-down and reconstruction of the fighter, it had also been an ideal teaching experience for Senior Airmen Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim- who had proven both eager and adept at learning what lessons Lyle had to offer.

While technically still generalists in Veritech maintenance (the RDF at some levels and in some commands still being grudging in allowing indoctrinated Zentraedi _too_ much knowledge of or access to critical systems) the three former Warriors of the Empire had gained a great bit of expertise in working with the various specialists in the Wing's support elements. They were punctual, quick to learn and retain, and attentive to details- and moreover had gained some level of trust with each group with which they worked.

By no means were Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim ready to replace Lyle as plane captain to Knight Hawk Squadron, or take on those responsibilities with another squadron- they still had much formal training and many qualifications between themselves and that level of responsibility. Lyle had reached a point where he could assign them complex and difficult tasks though, and count on them to be carried out reliably.

Lyle still checked, of course- "trust but verify" as the Russians were fond of saying, rumor had it- but when it came to his "babies" this was always standard practice for Lyle anyway.

Even Winters ha relaxed his stance on the Zentraedi airmen laying hands on squadron aircraft.

As one of the first interactions between the excitable squadron commander and the maintenance technicians had been Winters drawing a weapon on them for no offense of theirs- this was a significant improvement in trust.

Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim had been with the squadron in Brazil and had shown every bit of the tenacity and fearlessness that one would expect of a Zentraedi Warrior when things had gone badly with the ASC there. While Winters had never said it directly, Lyle was sure that his position on the three had truly begun to soften during and following that trying episode.

Since that time, he had only shown mild discomfort on the occasions he had seen them engaged in maintenance work on the squadron's Valkyries- including his own. In ways that only could take place between mechanics and machines, they had been- _intimate_ \- with every fighter under Lyle's charge, but in its happening the pilots and plane captain alike had found that despite their initial misgivings- this appeared to be alright..

In reality, in all respects -and with legitimate contributions from Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim, _Marilyn_ was the best maintained, and most inspection and combat ready aircraft in the entire NORAMWEST command cluster and was only waiting for the opportunity to fly again.

That moment had come.

Lyle's "moment" ended abruptly, intruded upon from two directions as his Zentraedi apprentices entered the HAS through the gaping doors that opened to the tarmac, and by the three pilots whose aircraft occupied the hardened shelter.

Helmet, pressure suits G-pants, parachute, and the various pieces of standard flight gear carried on their person by all pilots adorned Winters' form again for the first time in what had been too long for Lyle's liking. The lieutenant colonel carried it all with ease though- naturally, and like he had hung it all up only the day before in his locker and the flight-prep room.

The pilots talked energetically between themselves as they came out of the hall connecting flight-prep to the HAS, resembling athletes enthusiastically taking the field rather than men about to set out on a killing. One not familiar with the pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron- pilots in general, really- might have found their casual manner disturbing, perhaps even offensive.

Lyle did know his pilots though- as well as he knew their aircraft at least, and he knew that this was their way.

When they strapped in and the canopies snapped home, their minds and attitudes would be all business.

"Well _sheeyt_ …", Lyle said, loud enough to draw the attention of Winters as the CO split from the other pilots and he and the plane captain both converged on _Marilyn_.

Lyle drew a clean, bandanna-style, red handkerchief from his coverall pocket as he reached the nose of the waiting fighter and went through the motions of polishing the way that the prideful polish a thing of value to remove a blemish that only they can see.

"We done thought you didn' love us no more…", Lyle said making a final pass with his handkerchief over the nose art- a replication of the iconic image of the long-dead starlet standing in a billowing dress over a subway grate's updraft that he had air-brushed on himself- before leaning casually against the ladder that had been set in place at the cockpit's side.

Winters was in the process of his "walk-around" of the fighter, checking needlessly for signs of disrepair, dysfunction, and verifying that all of the ship's ordinance was firmly secured to the rails, fuses in place, and safety pins removed.

"You know how I'm bad at calling.", Winters said, ducking beneath the port engine intake to give the GU-11 gun pod a firm shove with his booted foot before going starboard to inspect the rockets and missiles suspended from the starboard wing.

"Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me?"

Lyle stooped under the fuselage to stay with the pilot in his walk-around that was rapidly drawing to a close.

"Ah s'pect Ah can.", Lyle said as he followed Winters aft to inspect the fighter's flare and chaff dispensers, "-But Ah gotta ask yer intentions b'fore ya go takin' mah baby out."

Winters and Lyle found themselves on the port side again walking forward, the pilot's inspection of his ship now complete.

"Only the worst intentions, I assure you.", Winters said, reaching the ladder at the cockpit's side, "What do you always say?- Ride her hard and put her up wet?"

Lyle patted the fuselage like a stable hand might pat the side of a horse's neck, "Yeah, rough's how she likes it-. Ya ain' been in the saddle `n a while, so just ease into it a little, would ya? Geyt used ta one `nother again `n all-."

As Winters ascended the ladder and threw a leg over the cockpit rim to step in, Senior Airman Aptur appeared with the clear intent of helping the CO to strap in.

Benignly, Lyle waved him off, saying, "Ah got this one-."

Unoffended, Aptur withdrew to offer assistance elsewhere.

Lyle joined Winters at cockpit-side as the pilot settled into the ejection seat and began to plug his suit in to the life-support, pressurized air, and electronics systems. The plane captain worked with familiarity around the pilot's activities and movements to fasten and secure his seat harnesses and one by one pull the straps taut.

As Winters put his helmet on and attached the oxygen mask to its fastening point, he recognized the hint of concern that Lyle was working to conceal.

"Hey-. It's going to be fine.", Winters assured the plane captain, "Just like riding a bicycle- right? Only at higher speeds and carrying explosives."

Lyle chuckled, "Well, hell- when'ya put it like that-."

Winters nodded his head to port, "Go on, clear out."

Lyle extracted the safety pin from the ejection seat handle and quickly descended the ladder and was pulling it away as _Marilyn_ 's flaps, elevators, and rudders began to move with the pilot's check of control surfaces. He was well clear of the fighter when Winters whistled shrilly at him.

"Yeah-?", Lyle called back.

Winters motioned into the cockpit, "-One more thing-. How do you start this contraption again?"

Lyle thumbed toward the open HAS doors.

" _Geyt!"_

Winters inserted a memory stick into the main computer port and locked it into place before tapping the flashing "START" icon that blinked at him from the center multi-functional display screen.

The cockpit flickered to life around him as the engine compressors started to drone and the turbines began to whir to life, slowly ascending in pitch into a high whine. The engines each gave a distinct "pop" as the plasma reaction stages lit and Winters felt the gentle push of thrust against the locked wheel brakes.

Winters moved his oxygen mask close to his mouth so to speak into the built-in microphone.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk Leader-. Request permission to taxi and prioritization for take-off-. Over."

Edwards Tower- "Joshua"- replied cleanly over the scrambled radio frequency, "Roger that, Knight Hawk Leader- You are clear to taxi to Runway Zero-Five. Wind is steady from zero-eight-zero at five. Take-off on request- you're in first slot…. Welcome back, Jack."

Winters, now at the point of facing what was to be done this morning replied with a grim laugh, "Thank you, Joshua-. Hope to hear you say that again in a few hours-."

Winters released the brakes and eased the throttles a touch forward. _Marilyn_ rolled smoothly out of the HAS, into the chilled air and early light of sunrise, and onto the tarmac. Swinging the nose right Winters passed the other squadron HAS with Vice and Preacher following in column at safe intervals. The other fighters were clearly powering up now too, and though he could not hear it over the sounds of his own engines, Winters knew that the Edwards flight line was coming alive with the preliminary sounds of action.

 _Marilyn_ crossed the runway apron and the ramp to Runway 50, made the right turn and was then nose-on with the long strip of the Rogers lakebed.

A stiff breeze blew through the closing gap between the Valkyrie's canopy and cockpit rim as Winters closed and secured it. It smelled of the desert morning- a clean and invigorating scent.

Without additional ceremony, Winters centered his front wheel and slowly eased the throttles forward until they reached the stops.

Illuminated by the edge of the rising sun and casting long shadows from the slightest terrain features, the lakebed began to roll by and quickly became a blur as _Marilyn_ built speed for take-off.

 _ **SDF-3**_

From the first days that humans had learned to use buoyant materials to ferry them over water, those pioneers and those who would later be called _sailors_ had probably been superstitious.

As with any new technology that involved carrying man away from his natural element, there had been peril for those who had gone down to the sea. How many countless thousands had gone out beyond sight of land to see beasts unimaginable to their land-loving contemporaries, or had been caught by a following sea or in a sudden squall that had appeared from nowhere?

How many had been seen going over the horizon by loved ones and those left behind never to be seen again? Victims, all knew, of sailing beyond the edge of the Earth or into the jaws of some unseen malevolent force.

For thousands of years, when experience and heritage were the teacher of the men of the sea and science not yet even a concept, one could understand the rise of certain superstitions and their being embraced by subsequent generations. After all, were those who had not made a sacrificial offering to a sea god not among those who were taken by the uncompromising waves? Did those who did not read the signs both subtle and gross not pay the price for their negligence?

Even when the old sea gods had died and been swallowed up by the same watery tomb that was the resting place for those who had offended them in centuries past- did sailors still not carry their superstitions like a second religion? Didn't every ship that had gone on every expedition, or fought in every battle have that sailor whose "trusty scar", "tricky leg", or collective "bones" was looked to for advice like an oracle for seafarers?

Did sailors not put their new vessels into the sea first with religious ceremony?

And when was the last time an albatross had been slain by a mariner?

Superstition may have changed form over the centuries, but it was still a very real part of the sailor's constitution.

Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter had never been a sailor in the truest sense of the word, having never served aboard a nautical vessel. She did not discredit herself for this though as she may not have been a seafarer- but she had earned her right to call herself a _starfarer._

And with that, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter felt she was at least entitled to _intuition_ if not superstition.

Hayes-Hunter's intuition was telling her now that something was amiss as she stood alone on the admiral's bridge, high in the conning tower of the recently-completed ship.

Always having been masterful in her self-awareness and self-control ( _professionally_ speaking at least), the thought had crossed Hayes-Hunter's mind that perhaps it was just memories of the past weaving themselves into events of the present that was having such an effect on her.

She had been _Commander_ Hays and executive officer under Henry J. Gloval, and had been on the bridge of _SDF-1_ on an early February day in 2009 when the plans for the ship to make her maiden flight had taken a radical and historic turn.

As _Captain_ Hayes she had been on the bridge of _her_ first command, _SDF-2_ , preparing for the controversial mission to take The Robotech War to The Masters' doorstep when the renegade Zentraedi Khyron and Azonia had attacked and irreparably crippled the second Battle Fortress.

Minutes later, she had been at her old post again aboard _SDF-1_ when the great ship made her final flight and had gone down defiantly with her guns blazing at the hands of the two blindly-obsessed Zentraedi commanders.

Only Admiral Gloval's selfless act of physically throwing her into the bridge's escape capsule and jettisoning her in the final moments before the collision between Khyron and Azonia's cruiser turned suicide-missile and _SDF-1_ had saved her from joining her friends Gloval, CDR Claudia Grant, LCDRs Kim Young, Samantha Porter, and Vanessa Leeds in being among the last casualties of the war.

That act had stayed with her in the years since, though she could never remember the event with consistent clarity. In those final moments when the Zentraedi's intent became unmistakably clear, Admiral Gloval had been closest to Kim, "Sammie" and Vanessa in relation to the escape pod.

In the time it had taken him to save _her_ , Hayes-Hunter knew with certainty that he could have saved _them_ \- and perhaps even himself.

He had ignored the simple logic of numbers and had chosen to save _her_ instead.

Gloval was Russian, and true to one of the stereotypes of that people was calculating and pragmatic. If his intentions had been to simply save as many lives as he could in the moment he had to act, he had made a poor decision.

If though, his intention had been _something else-_.

In the months leading up to that final battle, after Admiral Gloval had pinned on her captain's eagle and had informed Hayes she would command _SDF-2_ under his flag in the offensive against The Robotech Masters- she had gotten a _sense_ repeatedly in conversations with him. She had gotten the sense that he did not expect to make the journey or fight the campaign that he had so meticulously planned in conjunction with the United Earth's new ally, Breetai. He went through the motions, spoke of hardships of war to come that _they_ would have to face together- and mostly Hayes had accepted his words at face value.

Other times, Glovval had spoken to her in a way that sounded more of a father passing on his mantle to a favored child rather than a senior officer speaking to a subordinate.

It was really only after that horrid day that it had clicked for Hayes.

In the dark of night it had come to her many times, and each time she had confessed her suspicions to Rick who had explained it away each time in the way one expected a pilot to, once you got to know pilots-. He had assured her that her survival had been the result of a snap-decision made in a split-second by Gloval and nothing more.

Rick Hunter had not known Gloval the way she had though- not even after he had assumed command of _SDF-1_ 's fighter wing. The man had _never_ made a snap-decision in his life- even when a split-second was all he had to make it in.

No, despite what Rick had told her over and over- Gloval had saved her with _purpose._

She had felt it each time she had made another unexpected leap in rank- gaining three stars in just under three years. General Breetai had told her that he had pressed for the promotions sensing her potential and not having the luxury to wait on her building experience.

There had been more than that at work though.

Lisa Hayes, now _Hayes-Hunter_ had sensed it at seeing the main structural members for _SDF-3_ assembled some twenty-eight months before, just as she had felt it at each of her promotion ceremonies- a sense that events were unfolding by some plan that she was only aware of in the execution, but that Gloval had known of all along.

She would not go so far as to call it providence or destiny- but it was something greater than random chance at work.

This was what her intuition told her, and like sailors of old she had come to trust her intuition.

Her trust in her intuition was also what made the sudden heightening of alert throughout the Fleet and in The Control Zone all that more disquieting.

Something was wrong, and she knew it.

And if her intuition was not enough, Breetai's intuition cinched it. The certainty of danger afoot was certain in the way that those who rely on intuition can pass judgment on a thing with no more proof than "that feeling".

-Or maybe "that feeling" was just a coincidental memory of a February day on the bridge of _SDF-1._

 _SDF-3_ was _not SDF-1_ though- a fact that Hayes-Hunter had reminded anyone of significance who had not already had that fact drilled into their head by Dr. Emil Lang- another of the few who had served aboard _SDF-1_ and had survived to see the completion of _SDF-3_.

Once described in conversation aptly to Hayes-Hunter' way of thinking as being equal parts Deadalus, Dr. Frankenstein, and Dr. Strangelove- Lang was at the same time the Rosetta Stone that had made the wringing of Robotechnology out of a charred hulk that had crashed on Macross Island possible.

That genius had produced- besides endless rants on the potential of Robotechnology for humanity and the directions it could be taken- a vessel that Zor himself would have recognized as being very much like his own, if not mistaking it for the same.

Unlike the angular lines of _SDF-1_ and _SDF-2_ , _SDF-3_ had the rounded, organic exterior that was more common to the appearance of Zentraedi vessels. The similarity with her distant Zentraedi cousins ended at the depth of her outer hull though, as did the similarity with any of her Terran relatives. _SDF-3_ was the "great experiment" (as Lang had called her), designed to not only operate autonomously away from support for extended periods, but also to _support_ the other ships of the battle group she was intended to lead.

At just over 1,600 meters (25% larger in dimensions and tonnage than the _SDF—1_ ) _SDF-3_ was more than a warship. At her core was a "Dynamic Manufacturing Facility"- identical in function and operation to the production facilities aboard Robotech Factories. With the proper quantity of raw materials, _SDF-3_ could generate without limit everything from synthesized rations and uniforms for her crew to new fighters for her hangars, or munitions to restock her own magazines.

In theory, the only limitations to her operational endurance was her Protoculture fuel supply (estimated to be viable for no less than 130 Terran years) and a functional crew to operate her.

So went the theory.

As for her warship attributes, _SDF-3_ was another milestone in and the pinnacle of combat systems. From an air combat wing of the latest generation of Veritech Fighters, to the full range of energy weapon and missile system technologies in the REF inventory, to the awesome firepower of her twin Reflex Cannon main battery and the latest energy barrier system- _SDF-3_ could stand toe-to-toe with any known vessel and trade body blows.

So went the theory.

Looking out through the forward view port over the long, sweeping foredecks of maroon colored (a throwback in appearance also to Zor's original Battle Fortress) Terilium alloy, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter was soberly aware that much about the new ship was still _theory_. One of the few remaining common elements shared with _SDF-1_.

Maintenance craft and EVA worker details could be seen moving about the ship's outer hull at various points double-checking final details that had been double-checked twice before. Kilometers of decorative bunting that had been run up from the ship's decks to her main sensor mast heads in anticipation of a grand christening ceremony were in the last stages of coming down, as were the decorative touches to the interior of the spacedock that had been the site of her final fitting out.

With the possibility now that _SDF-3_ might be called into immediate action, there was no time or latitude for such pleasantries. A scenario reminiscent again of the beginning of _SDF-1_ 's service life- a life that Hayes-Hunter hoped _SDF-3_ would not parallel to its termination.

The door at the aft end of the admiral's bridge slid open, washing the dimmed compartment with the light of the corridor beyond and allowing the shadow of a figure to be thrown long over the vacant stations.

"Admiral, ma'am-?"

"Yes, Captain?", Hayes-Hunter replied, not taking her eyes off the activities going on about her flagship. She had recognized Captain Hollenkamp from his reflection in the acrylic of view port.

Oddly, Hollenkamp was at least ten years older than she, but by virtue of her meteoric rise to Vice Admiral had the obligation to answer to her as his clear superior. It had never been an issue with the captain who Hayes-Hunter had chosen personally to command _SDF-3_ for his flawless and impressive service record, and for the aggressive combat philosophy he had been known for trying to impart on students at the RDF Academy's Space Warfare School.

"Ma'am, Lieutenant General Hunter has just come aboard.", Hollenkamp informed Hayes-Hunter, "-And like you said, he's declined the transfer of flags ceremony."

Hayes-Hunter smiled slightly, turning to face the ship's commander, "Skull One is aboard- _that's_ General Hunter's transfer of flags. That damn Veritech is his thirty ton lucky bottlecap."

And it was.

Roy Folker's old VF-1S Veritech fighter had never been more than a figurative arm's reach from Rick Hunter since he had inherited it after Folker's unfortunate death from wounds sustained in combat. Even though Rick himself had long since been taken off the combat roster of the famous Skull Squadron (ceding its leadership to Max Sterling) he still made a point of having Skull One nearby and available, and would even act as his own transport from place to place when conditions permitted.

"We all have our quirks, ma'am.", Hollenkamp advised.

"- _And_ our _spouse's_.", Hayes-Hunter added.

"Additionally, Admiral-.", Hollenkamp continued, reporting on his command, "The final provisions and stores are now aboard and will be secure within the hour. We can put out any time."

"-Without a shake-down cruise.", Hayes-Hunter reminded him.

Hollenkamp crossed to the center of the admiral's bridge and leaned on the darkened holographic display table, saying almost casually, "Well, the first test of the Saturn 5 rocket was a full-up flight test. That turned out pretty well-. And we have ten times the number of PhDs and about a trillion times the computer power dedicated to simulations behind us. I'm not completely behind the idea either, but the odds are better for us than against us."

" _Mmm-._ ", Hayes-Hunter hummed her partial agreement, "Of course the Saturn 5 rocket never had the threat of someone shooting at it- or _a lot_ of someones."

"True.", Hollenkamp agreed, "But is anyone ever _truly_ ready for combat?"

Hayes-Hunter nodded, "Point well taken, Captain."

Hollenkamp paused hesitantly in the silence and then asked, "So, you think there's something behind all of this? I mean, General Breetai ordering the Fleet to go pretty much to stand-by?"

Hayes-Hunter shook her head, "I want to say he's just being cautious, but I honestly don't know, Julian- I honestly don't know. I'm feeling something in my gut, and I can't shake it."

"Me too.", Hollenkamp agreed, "Funny how sometimes you spend so much of your career trying to be right, only to hope most of the time that your instincts are wrong."

"Yeah, funny.", Hayes-Hunter agreed, "In a not-so-funny way."

"Well", Hollenkamp resolved, "If some rogue Zentraedi decides to try to mix it up with us and expects to find the defenses of six years ago- he's gonna have a _helluva_ rude surprise, Admiral."

Hayes-Hunter said solemnly, "If a rogue Zentraedi commander with a large enough force decides to mix it up with us, Julian- _we_ could _all_ be in for a rude surprise. Let's hope that this is one of those instances where our instincts are wrong."

"Amen to that, Admiral."

 **14 Km North of Brasilia**

" _You're gonna need a bigger boat-."_

The image through Whilite's mini-binoculars jumped and trembled as he worked to stifle the laugh that he, and every other Ranger in 3rd Platoon- _Echo Company_ really- needed.

They had been up and operational for just over thirty-six hours now, and though it would take much more to break any of the Rangers in the unit- the first signs of fatigue were setting in.

Fortunately, Staff Sergeant Byerly always knew what to say and at what moment to say it to relieve just enough of the pressure to allow the mission to carry on fluidly. It was part of that odd composition that made for a good sergeant- knowing when to be a comedian, when to apply the "mom's touch", and when to apply a firm boot in the ass.

Byerly had perfected the balance.

The fact that daylight was on the rise also, and with it the need to remain "holed up" in observation positions meant that the platoon- the _company_ \- could begin to sleep in shifts. The Ranges would not squander the opportunity as there was a sense that their strength would be needed in whatever came next.

The Zentraedi were not likely to go anywhere by daylight, and if they did- particularly if they decided to go somewhere _aggressively_ \- the positions of their encampments had been called in already to nearby firebases and the proper settings dialed in to no less than four batteries of artillery.

They did not know it, but the Zentraedi that Whilite was observing were a simple call and twenty seconds away from a saturating steel rain.

If he, or another made the call.

What troubled Whilite more than the fact that he and the bulk of 4th Ranger were in the field, shadowing and observing a malcontent force that if it became aware of the Rangers' presence could easily overwhelm them by sheer weight of numbers was that there was still no clear reason as to _why_ the malcontents were here.

Operation Masterson and its push into the sector of Brasilia identified as "Abilene" had been expected to elicit a reaction from the malcontents still dug in deep within Brasilia- but their reaction had not been the one that the operational planners had anticipated. Instead of experiencing violent counterattack, the Rangers and their supporting forces had witnessed nothing less than a complete withdrawal of the Zentraedi from the former capital..

There had been bloodshed- certainly- but not on the scale that there could have been.

The Zentraedi had simply packed up shop and pulled out- putting up what could only be classified as the required rear guarding action to facilitate a clean escape- not even true resistance.

"Lawman", or more commonly known as General Wendel of the 129th Infantry Division had monitored the Zentraedi exodus from his command post, "Homestead", through the electronic eyes of UCAVs, Destroids, and helmet cameras like everyone else involved in Masterson. He had watched as the Zentraedi had washed through the streets like the creep and flow of rising flood waters- rolling north and out into the countryside.

Wendel had taken the natural precaution of defense, drawing what forces he could to surround the areas of Brasilia that the RDF and ASC already held collectively and had ordered units in outlying areas to shelter in place and defend themselves the best they could.

The order had been pointless though. The sudden Zentraedi movement had not resulted in any kind of massive counterattack- not even a skirmish beyond the brief and bloody melee that had ensued at the initiation of the alien withdrawal.

Officers and staff at Homestead, officers and troops spread throughout Brasilia had watched the aliens simply walk away. Some RDF units had been so close as to have been within spitting distance of the alien throngs as they withdrew- but had been within such proximity without incident beyond the regular spiteful glares of the withdrawing malcontents.

Contrary to their nature, the Zentraedi had _just left._

They had just left, marched north beyond the city limits and had set up camp, organized it seemed into groups of regimental size or less.

"Sergeant-.", Whilite said finally, snapping the flip-up dust covers of his binoculars back into place before slipping the glasses into their carrying pouch on his rig, "-We are living in some strange times."

"Christmas is the season of miracles.", Byerly snorted incredulously, "Maybe this is their version of peace on Earth and _blah, blah, blah.._ "

"Sure, and I'm Saint Nick-.", Whilite replied.

No, the Zentraedi were hatching something- of that, Whilite had no doubt. It was the _what_ that he could not zero-in on.

It had nothing to do with peace and good will- that much was for sure.

The Zentraedi _had_ abandoned Brasilia, and _had not_ instigated a fight other than perhaps the bloodbath that had flared up in their rear lines- but pacifism was clearly far from their intent.

Every Zentraedi walking, riding a modestly impressive number of salvaged civilian vehicles, or pulling a cart did so laden to absolute capacity with the implements of violence. The order had even come down from Lawman himself to all units, reinforcing standard ROE: that firing was sanctioned only in cases of immanent danger or self-defense- so concerned had Command been of arousing the anger of so many armed Zentraedi.

So with their weapons, they had left the city, gone a short distance and bivouacked.

Almost as quickly, 4th Ranger had re-equipped for field operations, gotten a hot meal into them, and under the cover of night had slipped out to pursue, shadow, and observe.

And now, here they all were- malcontents and Rangers spread out in a crude semi-circle north of and seeming to cap Brasilia with the Terran forces "holding" the interior line.

The ASC was here too- Whilite had known this as a fact since around 0240 and had suspected they would be in the field since much earlier- when intel had predicted it. A quick security sweep east of 3rd Platoon's right flank position by 2nd Squad had happened quietly upon an ASC Rcon OP- supposedly without drawing attention to itself.

Whilite didn't care one way or the other about what the ASC did or did not know about his platoon's whereabouts- he even invited their knowing.

If any kind of shooting were to start, even ASC humans would still be humans- and allies in one form or another by default.

The artillery was zeroed in though, just waiting for the first signs of unrest to equalize the balance of forces and end the Zentraedi plan before it got started- whatever that plan was.

"I don't get it, Michelle-.", Whilite said quietly. A fire team from 1st Squad lay in concealment a few meters down the incline of the hill and in its brush and weedy cover, well hidden from Zentraedi eyes but possibly still within earshot of their lieutenant both speaking informally to the platoon sergeant and voicing confusion.

"They could have turned every street into Omaha Beach- but they walk out and then set up camp like they're getting ready to take the place by storm again-. What the hell kind of sense does that make?"

Byerly shrugged, "The saying about rats and a sinking ship comes to mind, El-Tee."

"The ship wasn't sinking though.", Whilite argued, figuring as the words passed his lips that the same argument had probably been made aboard the _Titanic_ for a while too.

Byerly shook her head, "Don't know what to tell you except that they''re going to find strollin' back in a _helluva_ lot harder than it was strollin' out."

"Yeah-.", Whilite agreed- not even attempting to sound convinced as he thought of a regiment's strength of Rangers and probably as many ASC recon and regulars buffering the outskirts of Brasilia from malcontents whose strength in numbers was _divisional_ at least.

"-We've got the poor bastards right where we want `em."

Staff Sergeant Byerly's choice of iconic film phrases suddenly seemed that much more appropriate.

If the shooting started, they _were_ gonna need a bigger boat.

 **Ft. Georgy Zhukov**

 **Kursk, Ukraine**

Winter had come to the steppes in late September this year- a lingering aftereffect in the environment from The Zentraedi Holocaust that would take decades to right itself scientists said- but the season now had Ukraine firmly in its teeth.

Harsh winter weather was no stranger to the region though, and as much a part of the Slavic peoples' composition as class struggle and endured hardships.

As a Russian, born, raised, and having spent his formative years in a hamlet outside of Smolensk, the stiff wind carrying the saucer-size snowflakes of a passing weather front were hardly noticed by Captain Alexander Cherghuliev of the RDF-Army's 5th Guards Armor Corps.

While not Smolensk, Ft. Georgy Zhukov and Ukraine was as much a home to Cherghuliev. It was more than the similarities in climate, or the fact that Zhukov was his duty post- it was the fact that Cherghuliev's family already had history in Kursk and in the legacy unit in which he served. His grandfather, _Sergeant_ Sergay Cherghuliev of the then-Soviet 5th Guards Tank Army had fought on this land and had bled into its soil during The Great Patriotic War at the battle that had made Kursk famous.

As a small boy, Cherghuliev could remember his grandfather taking him to the boundless fields where only the occasional rusted hulk of a tank gave any indication that there had once been violence there and had woven intricate and elaborate verbal tapestries of the glories and horrors he had seen. Though not a conscious decision yet, Cherghuliev had known then that he would return to this place to do the things his grandfather had done before him.

Cherghuliev had been far too young for The Global War, but to his parents' dismay had been of the age of service at the time that The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces- Army had been looking to swell its ranks.

Cherghuliev's impulse had been to enlist, but his mother a university teacher of chemistry and his father a university-educated manager of an electronics component factory had convinced him that at the least he should make his career in the military an _officer's_ career.

And he had.

He had entered the Army as a second lieutenant and had been accepted into the armored warfare school with the officer's rank to satisfy is his parents and on a path that appealed to him and was pleasing to his grandfather in the final months of his life.

Still, at the moment it was of little comfort- it was the holidays and while Alexander Cherghuliev should have been home reading stories of Christmas and Grandfather Frost to his daughter, Natasha- four, while his wife Natalya nursed three-month old Mikhal- he was instead concluding an unanticipated exercise and would be attending to his tank platoon's follow-on activities for several more hours.

It was an understood risk that the 5th Guards shouldered in being attached to the 301st Mobile Planetary Defense Battery Regiment- that as the ground-level defense component, they could be activated and expected to move out at a moment's notice. And while this did not preclude the possibility of this happening during the holiday season, it was almost unheard of to have an emergency mobilization drill sprung upon them during those times.

It had not been broached by Division, or alluded to in the issuance of the drill orders earlier that day- but it had not gone unnoticed by the 301st or the 5th Guards that the "drill" orders had come hard on the heels of the 12-hour recall orders that had come down directly from OMCS.

Cherghuliev as he had entered Army service had been under the illusion that all things in the Army were clearly defined and outlined so that there was no chance of misinterpretation or misunderstanding. He had since discovered that in many things, it was still required that one be able to read between the lines of "official" communication.

The 12-hour recall order combined with the mobilization drill alluded to something more than testing the readiness of military units at a time when they could be expected to be the least ready.

It alluded to a real concern felt all the way up to The Military Chief of Staff that lacked clear form but still warranted preparedness.

This was what Cherghuliev read between the lines.

All of the tankers in his platoon- all of the men and women in the 5th and the 301st had still used the few and rare idle moments during the drill to speak of what they would be doing with family on Christmas Day- but there was a common sense that this was talk that was as much to steady nerves as to actually plan for the next day.

The hardest part for Cherghuliev was conceiving of and delivering in a convincing manner a lie to Natalya that dismissed the odd convergence of events that he now found himself in.

" _Why would they choose to do this today?_ ", Natalya had asked standing by the half-decorated tree with Mikhal over her right shoulder.

" _Because General Khuchenko is a bitter old man with no family and the need for another star-."_ , Alexander had explained as he had taken his quick-deployment bag out of the front closet of his family's modest officer's quarters apartment on his way out the door.

"- _This is his sad version of a family gathering at Christmas."_

The lie had been quickly rendered and Cherghuliev had seen in his wife's eyes that she was not convinced- but in the absence of facts that he likely would not have been allowed to share in any event, it was the best he could do to comfort her.

He had told her that he would be back likely in the late hours of the night or early hours of the morning and would be there to lead the family in prayer over The Holy Feast-.

- _After._

Cherghuliev was certain that similar if not the same lie had been told as many times to spouses, sweethearts, and family as there were members in the combined unit. He was also equally certain that just as many times the lie was accepted with muted disbelief.

Still- it looked now as though he, and the other liars of his unit _might_ make good on their promises.

As Cherghuliev stood just inside of the open motor pool shelter doors, one of the centerpieces of the 301st glided by silently through the center of the marshalling yard.

At just under 85 meters in length, the M-71 Synchro Cannon Hover Platform was the least toted and the _only_ Army-owned planetary defense asset in the RDF inventory. Simple in concept but more challenging in justification to a heavily strained Armed Forces Financing Committee, the Synchro Cannon was not unlike a self-propelled artillery piece- only with more firepower in orders of magnitude.

Though difficult to make out through the driving snow while the cannon was stowed flush to the body of its transport platform, the energy weapon was nothing less than a miniaturized and modified version of the _SDF-1_ 's famous Reflex Cannon- a glorified variant of particle beam weapon technology. The Synchro Cannon borrowed from the Cold War era concept of the mobile, short-range tactical nuclear missile launcher- only this incarnation directed its destructive potential _outwards._

As had just been practiced in the drill from which Cherghuliev was returning, the Synchro Cannon units- deployed throughout the "open" landscapes of the Earth- were designed to engage any enemy space-going force that might penetrate the outer perimeters of the Earth's developing Aegis Planetary Defense System and reach middle to low orbit.

The Synchro Cannon had the reach to engage warships at a much greater distance- even out beyond the constellation of A.R.M.D. II space platforms standing at their geostationary guard posts- however "turf conflicts" between the RDF-Army and REF had greatly reduced the Synchro Cannon's area of responsibility.

True to political aspect of the design of any major weapons system, the Synchro Cannon had been defined in concept as much by inter-service tensions and rivalries as it had been by practical requirement.

The other and beneficial side of that same coin was however that the concept of a "smaller" Reflex Cannon had appealed to the REF as well. While as an Army program alone, the Synchro Cannon may not have received adequate funding to see operational life- with REF interest and the prospect of a _joint_ project with multiple applications- the program had been funded sufficiently to bear viable fruit.

Though not commonly discussed, it was nonetheless a matter of record that _many_ system components developed for the Synchro Cannon system had found their way into other military systems.

The Long Range Acquisition and Targeting System- or "LRATS" used to feed target data to the Synchro Cannon in the prospect absence of the InfoLink data network had been integrated into a number of ground-based missile systems.

Even the maglev drive and stabilization system that supported and propelled the cannon's platform on an invisible cushion of parallel magnetic fields had found its way into other systems. The irony here, Cherghuliev recognized, that the maglev had appeared in a _Southern Cross_ weapons system- the newly revealed VHT- _before_ it had been incorporated into any other RDF or REF vehicles.

-Another constant and bi-product of military R&D: the sustainment of a healthy industrial and technological espionage community.

The Synchro Cannon had spawned many offshoots, both dramatic and subdued- including a variant of the transport platform itself that carried a ground-based variant of the REF's Mk-9 "Ballista" ASM- another project that the REF _just happened_ to have been interested in pursuing _jointly_ with the RDF-Army- but it was the formation of the Mobile Planetary Defense Battery units that had affected Cherghuliev most directly.

The MPDBs, built around the operations of the Synchro Cannons and Ballista Hover Platforms required a ground-level defense with mobility and speed equal to their own. It was coincidental that in the steppes of Ukraine that The 5th Guards Armored Corps and its mix of traditional and mecha armor fit the need precisely of the 301st.

As was so common these days with the fusion of new and old technologies, The 5th Guards provided the "fist" of armor to pave the way to anywhere in the region that the 301st might choose to operate from.

Operationally, the services of neither The 5th Guards nor the 301st had been called upon- yet.

No marauding Zentraedi space cruiser or Invid transport had ventured to within the Synchro Cannon or Ballista Platform's striking distance, and there were no mased forces of enemy mecha for The 5th Guards to defend them against.

Combined, they were a unit guarding against the hypothetical armed with the state-of-the-art theoretical.

But as the old adage had said, the best weapons system was the one that you never had to use.

Cherghuliev began to feel the weariness from the day set in on him along with the numbing effects of the winter cold.

He wanted to be home again, and soon- and his enemy right now was the required after-action paperwork that stood between him and that goal.

 **The Panama Canal RDF Military Control Zone**

The heat and sultriness of the air never diminished in Central America.

December was as June, which was as March or September- always the same, smothering blanket of heat and humidity.

Some said that with time, one became acclimatized to the tropical swelter- but those who had said that had probably not spent much time in Panama.

Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen of the 443rd Regiment, RDF-Army Corps of Engineers was rounding out his eighth month in Panama, and _he_ had not yet acclimatized to the region.

Certainly he had felt heat and humidity before- having gone through "officers' boot camp" in Fort Benning, Georgia and through the regional Corps of Engineers training at the "Learning Center" in Huntsville, Alabama.

Khoa had even returned to Vietnam with his family, before The Zentraedi Holocaust, to see his father's ancestral village.

Nothing though in memory or training had prepared Nguyen for the oppressive climate and relentless, malicious insects of Panama.

Early in his tour, when he had first been attached to the 443rd, Captain Adams of his company had made the remark that Panama was "one continuous shower that never ran out of hot water". –And Nguyen had quickly come to believe that.

As his father, an officer commanding a company with 4th Ranger Regiment had assured him he would- Khoa had even experienced moments of doubt that the Army was the path he wanted to follow in applying his engineering education and skills. But also following his father's advice, he had simply put his shoulder into his work and had pressed forward.

Now, standing over Lock 47 as cranes lifted out the last of the collapsed and stacked molding and scaffolding that been a constant image of ongoing work for months- Khoa Nguyen knew that he _was_ in the place that he was meant to be- despite the heat.

The Panama Canal- like almost every other significant achievement of humankind had been devastated by The Zentraedi Holocaust. Skeptics had at a glance written the engineering marvel of the early 20th Century off as unsalvageable and beyond repair- or at least low on the list of priority of things to repair given the scope of worldwide devastation.

General Javier Gonzago, of the RDF's Central America Command had conceded willingly, almost _joyfully_ that The Panama Canal could _not_ be repaired.

It would be _rebuilt_ and _improved upon._

Khoa Nguyen had remembered early stories coming out of the region- early photos and video clips showing modern earth moving equipment at work side-by-side with teams of mules driven by local laborers in the first efforts to clear away the debris of the old canal.

By the time he had earned his right to call himself an engineer, though not yet an Army engineer, Gonzago's outlandish prophecy was becoming reality. Beyond reality, it was also becoming an inspirational example to all parts of the world that the Earth _could come back._

Nguyen had realized this most when on his final spring recess at university when he had happened to be walking along a street to see a construction crew repairing a sewer line. Not gratifying work, not glorious by any stretch of the imagination- but the words scrawled across the back of one of the workers' denim vest said all that needed to be said about the true genius of Gonzago's vision.

It had read:

"IF IT CAN HAPPEN IN PANAMA, WHY NOT HERE?"

There had been a lot of hard work between then and now, both in training and in actual, "hands in the dirt" work- but it _was_ happening in Panama, and Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen was part of it.

Actually, it was happening all over the world.

The Panama Canal had been reborn, and a grander achievement than its original incarnation. The breadth of the stepped waterway had been increased to a remarkable 75 meters, making it passable to all ships currently afloat and restoring it to the status of the fastest route between the Pacific and the Atlantic. Though gates and pumping stations would still have to be tested and final adjustments inevitably made, there was every reason to expect that ships would again be making the shortened passage again within three to four months.

With a similar effort underway at the site of The Suez Canal, maritime commerce held the promise of returning to pre-holocaust normalcy within a matter of years.

With that, planetary trade would resume again and the wheels of reconstruction would be able to turn that much more quickly.

At graduation from Huntsville, the commandant of the Corps of Engineers had told all those receiving their certification that the soldier in the Corps of Engineers wore two hats and carried dual responsibilities. They were warriors, and with that carried the responsibilities of preserving and defending the peace. But they were also engineers, and in the world they lived in that meant that they shouldered the burden of laying the foundation upon which the Earth would rebuild itself again.

In his time at "The Canal", Nguyen had performed both duties- or at least been exposed to the dangers of the former.

With the entire garrison of Panama Base assigned to support and protect the Canal project, direct contact with malcontents had been rare in Nguyen's first five months on site. A buffer zone running parallel to the canal itself and never less than four kilometers deep had been established and held with great integrity by the infantry and mecha armor forces.

There had been _incidents_ all along though. Mostly mortar attacks from extreme range that had little hope of doing more than intimidating- and certainly had no chance of significantly disrupting the work being performed by the engineers.

Still, it was a level of peril that Khoa Nguyen had had to experience before knowing that the combat arm of the military would probably not have been the best choice for him.

It was probably the waiting that was the worst- the waiting that took place between the wail of the warning siren and the fall of the first mortar round. The waiting and the uncertainty of where the free-falling bomb would land- that was what got Khoa each time.

The first three attacks he had been through, all within the first two weeks of his time at The Canal- Khoa had played off, not so much with bravado but the acceptance of danger that his father had always shown when talking about life in a Ranger unit.

The fear never quite subsided, but it wasn't until the end of his second month when one of the random mortars lobbed by a hidden malcontent team beyond the perimeter struck a cluster of empty steel container drums and sent three engineers that Nguyen had come to know to hospital- sending one home eventually- that Khoa had actually come to recognize the violence of the region.

Even that incident could have been worse though. An infantryman had told Nguyen later that the mortar had been of the fragmentation sort, and intended to detonate overhead. If its fuse had been set properly, if it had not crashed into the cluster of empty drums and detonated there- it likely would have killed instead of wounded.

It had been a lucky "miss"- but one after which Nguyen always was sure to have his flak vest and helmet with him and on whenever outside of the cover of a solid structure.

Over the past two to two-and-a-half months, the attacks had grown worse in frequency if not the accuracy of mortars lobbed- and malcontents had even been killed trying to penetrate the canal zone's perimeter. Nguyen had even taken to the practice of carrying a rifle if he was to be out at a work site in the pre-dawn or dusk hours- an addition to the side arms all officers were required to carry regardless.

And then, as inexplicably as the violence had increased- it had dropped to nothing.

Not a siren had been heard in ten days, nor the whistle and boom of an incoming round.

But now there were strange orders from OMCS, and though the Corps of Engineers did not associate regularly with the infantry security elements- if one stood in their proximity for long enough to observe them, there was a sense about them that said that they were bracing up for something that they could not clearly mark or identify.

This was life in The Panama Canal Zone, which Nguyen reminded himself was nothing like what his father dealt with on a daily basis in Brasilia and The Zentraedi Control Zone.

This was probably just the peak of tensions and would blow over soon though.

One never got used to the heat in Panama and his father had told him that there was never any getting used to violence, but looking at just how far this project had come in eight months, and knowing that he had been part of it- Khoa Nguyen knew that he had chosen the right path.

 **ASC Salvador Base,**

 **Salvador de Norte, Brazil**

 _1 minute, 45 seconds._

Lieutenant Colonel Warren "Mojo" Mathias was not hearing the wail of the general alarm siren that seemed to shake the entire base to include the slabs of tarmac concrete that he stood on. He was focused on the stopwatch he held in his meaty right fist- the timepiece he had started at the initiation of the readiness drill that only General Braddock's staff, himself, and several other officers of the Army of the Southern Cross base had foreknowledge of.

 _Two minutes._

All over the flight line, ground crews were scrambling to arm the "Alert Stand-by" aircraft, as Mathias was certain the support crews further to the west were preparing the mecha elements attached to Salvador.

Of particular interest to Mathias was the arming of the base's newest acquisitions- a squadron of "Logan" Veritech Fighters.

The fact that they were the aircraft of _his_ squadron, Cavalier Squadron, was something of a contributing factor to his interest.

Training for he and the Cavaliers on the new ASC transformable aircraft had been ongoing for nearly two years- well before a fully functional prototype had been flown, and before his squadron had traded in their Phantom interceptors for the latest siblings in the Robotechnology family.

It had seemed ridiculous at times to train to operate machines that did not yet exist, but at every turn he and the other pilots had been assured that the Logans were coming and that training and equipment would converge operationally in the not-so-distant future.

That too had seemed unlikely to Mathias, as it was a poorly kept secret that the design board was having difficulties with some of the fundamental questions of control systems that were required to make something as complex as a transformable vehicle operationally viable. But something had changed at some point, and the ASC that had seemed to be a distant second runner-up in the Robotechnology race had made it to the finish line with a sudden surge.

Of course, _having_ the Logans in their possession was of no use to Cavalier Squadron if they could not be prepared for flight and combat in a rapid order and at a moment's notice.

 _2 minutes, 30 seconds._

Salvador Base had learned something of an embarrassing lesson in preparedness for rapid response- and not from the normal tutors, the population of Zentraedi malcontents whose limited cooperation with the ASC had dissolved three months before.

No, the painful and costly blow to Salvador- to the ASC in this secotr as it applied to revenue generation- had come from two squadrons of RDF pilots when a potentially lucrative business arrangement had gone horribly and unexpectedly wrong.

Mathias had felt the sting of being caught off guard and on the ground- a wound only made more raw by the fact that a skillfully executed pursuit and intercept had been interrupted before the kill by supporting RDF forces.

Mathias had made it a point to not let a single man- an _arrogant, priggish, conceited, syrupy-idealism driven, swaggering, self-righteous-._

Mathias was not going to allow one man become his white whale-.

But he had not denied himself the self-indulgent hope of a _rematch._

And from what Mathias had experienced with the delivered product- the Logan Veritech was the tool to bring to the event.

It was an ugly little bastard- there was no denying it, Mathias knew- but the Logan had not been designed or built to impress with its aesthetic qualities. It lacked the reach of weapons available to the VF series Valkyrie Veritech to be any kind of a match at long ranges- but within its striking distance-.

The Logan, despite its primary role as a _ground support_ and _attack_ platform, could carry any air-to-air weapon in the ASC or ASC/RDF shared inventory. At all altitudes and in all conditions it was more maneuverable than the aging Valkyrie with a higher rate of turn, smaller turn radius, superior thrust-to-weight ratio, and subsequently a better rate of climb. At some altitudes, it even was a match for the sleeker Valkyrie in speed.

Down on the deck though, where Mathias dreamt of the moment taking place- the Logan was a hands-down superior aircraft- and able to absorb punishment as well as it could dispense it- and far better than its flashier elder.

Fighting Valkyries was not the Logan's primary role though, nor was his Mathias reminded himself.

Even if it would have been wholly gratifying.

 _Three minutes._

The malcontents were in the final phases of staging something in the region- something _big._

The Army of the Southern Cross and The Alliance of Independent States that it defended regionally from the enormous, marooned alien population within was aware of it. The United Earth Government and its branches of the Robotech Defense Forces thought themselves magnanimous and publicly carried themselves so for the scraps of intelligence that they threw to the AIS and the command of the ASC- but these intelligence offerings were merely slight illumination on trends, events, and individuals that the ASC was already conscious of and monitoring.

There was no great skill in intelligence gathering or analysis required to see that something massive was being worked toward a moment of execution by the aliens.

Three months earlier, Mathias had been a participant in the event- ironically named with the benefit of hindsight, "Operation Back Step"- that had begun The Zentraedi Control Zone on the course that had carried it to this point.

The initial reaction of the malcontents was understandable- expected even. Alien rage and the natural reciprocity had flared in central Brazil and for a time reached a level of violence that seemed disproportionate in response to the blow dealt to them- even for Zentraedi.

Then, as the flash of anger should have been subsiding the areas experiencing malcontent attack _expanded_ and the disjointed attacks and raids took on a focused and unexpected form. The aliens had begun to raid military posts and depots- often suffering what should have been crippling casualties for the sake of making off with weapons and supplies- sometimes in insignificant qualities. Armed supply convoys were hit and their cargo seized, units in the field were attacked and the bodies of the dead stripped of anything that could be useful in battle.

Only _battles_ had never really come in the three months since Back Step.

There had been _allusions_ to battle, hints and indicators that had set the ASC and RDF-Army scrambling to prepare for battle- but never the grand battles themselves that Zentraedi were renown for excellence in.

Some population centers- Brasilia being the most noteworthy- had fallen under alien siege and had therefore become centers of world attention as much for publicity reasons as any legitimate reason. Cities in The Control Zone became the objects of the public's attention and the progress of the RDF and ASC in "securing" them from the aliens the measure of success in maintaining the peace.

Only it was bullshit, and anyone with more than a week in The Control Zone knew it.

All the while humans around the world were looking to the capture of another block of gutted buildings in Brasilia as being a step towards victory over the malcontents, units and posts deep in the bush- like Salvador Base- were aware that they were being watched and studied by the same malcontents. There was an increase of skirmishes between ASC and malcontent patrols around every major base to support this assertion- and almost every unit sent into the field to sweep the area for suspicious alien activity came across badly disposed-of malcontent observation posts.

There was always a level of violence, but one at a level where it quickly became obvious that the malcontents were holding back. Probably holding back for something _bigger._

And then there was the spread of the same activities both north and south. The same violent raids that spoke of preparation for something greater.

RDF and ASC PR put the best spin on it all that they could- but anyone in the field _knew._

Mathias knew.

And when the level of raids and skirmishes had dropped off over the past ten days to almost nothing- all knew that the _something big_ was close at hand.

If either the RDF or the ASC had had some idea of where the coordination was coming from- and it _had_ to be coordinated at some level- the similarities of action north, south, and center were too great to be coincidental- then they would have struck preemptively.

But there was no central, strong figure to be looked at as a mastermind. There had not been since the death of a Zentraedi named Yeshta.

Knowing that at some point the hammer would come down, and with no way to prevent it- the Earth's military, ASC and RDF alike, had no choice but to dig in and brace.

 _Four minutes._

That meant being able to get the ASC Air Force's latest weapons system off the ground and into a fight in under five minutes.

That was appearing possible, but the prospect of getting where Mathias wanted to be was not looking promising.

The ordinance handling crews within a span of seconds moved their self-propelled carts away from the four Logans that occupied the hangar. The airmen and NCOs who had probably been aware on some level that they were being drilled and that they were being observed looked out to Mathias in silent expectation- waiting to see whether their efforts to complete the task in the allotted time had been successful.

Mathias thumbed the switch on the stopwatch.

 _4-17-64._

Mathias waved his arm in a wide arc at the Logans in the hangar- intentionally appearing more perturbed than he actually was.

" _Strip `em and do it over!"_

At some point, lost in his own focus, Mathias had not noticed that his XO, Lieutenant Colonel Benedicto Giermo had snuck up on him close enough to be able to read the stopwatch over his shoulder.

"Four and a quarter minutes _is_ respectable-.", the exec reminded his superior.

"Four and a quarter is _respectable_ -.", Mathias admitted quietly, as though the ground crews some forty meters away might hear him, "Three and a half is _desirable._ "

Giermo lit a cigarette and offered one to Mathias who accepted. The heat was building already and slender, Latino pilot hoped that a dose of nicotine would ease the agitation of his thick-blooded, northern comrade.

"You think they can get to a proficiency of taking a bare squadron and arming them up in three and a half minutes?", Giermo asked, his tone guardedly doubtful, "Hell, Warren- even ready ordinance storage is a hundred meters away by regulation. Maybe if we had the ground crews start to sleep in the hangars-."

"We'll get `em hammocks.", Mathias resolved, inflexible in his determination, "If we don't get down to three-thirty, it won't be for lack of trying."

Giermo followed Mathias's gave across the tarmac and the runway apron to the far side of the airfield.

The XO realized after a moment that the path of Mathias' stare was probably subconscious at some level as it drew an invisible line through the concrete surfaces that had been shot to temporary uselessness by an element of rebelling Valkyries three months earlier, to the new storage building that had been built to replace one destroyed by the same RDF pilots.

The building was noticeably new with the fresh paint on its corrugated steel skin, and the replacement concrete slabs that bridged the runway aprons and main runways was still not weathered to the same shade as the slabs it connected- but these were minor scars to Salvador Base that went unnoticed to those who did not know to look for them.

Mathias knew to look for them though, and many times Giermo had caught him surveying these old wounds.

The squadron leader's determination to shorten to the absolute limit the ready-response time of his command was probably related to this in some way, Giermo was certain- and perhaps indicative of something else.

And why not?

Besides the obvious embarrassment of a fully garrisoned ASC base, deep within ASC-controlled territory being taken off-guard from within, there was the more real-world implications of what had happened here.

More than the overall insignificant financial loss that had been incurred with the destruction of harvested "product", there had been the real fear that the ASC's elicit source of _supplemental funding_ would become broad, public knowledge.

There had also been the military embarrassment that after being dealt the heavy psychological blow of being attacked on their own soil, the ASC had been unable to close with and engage two squadrons of Valkyries until they had entered the clear, out over the sea.

General Braddock, and even Lt Col Mathias had taken heavy flak and both official and unofficial reprimand for all of that, and in their presence one could tell that they were still feeling the sting.

There was plenty of "sting" to go around, and at all levels and in all locations across the ASC domain- but here at Salvador was where it was felt most keenly.

Giermo, possibly more capable of seeing the benefit in the circumstances better than either Mathias or Braddock, recognized that because of "the incident" (as it was called on post) there were changes and improvements being made across the ASC and its areas of operation.

Gaps in the ground-based air tracking network were almost completely closed now and the need for and effort towards air-based C2 had been embraced and was being pursued.

Cooperative combat techniques and mutual support between ASC bases had evolved significantly in a short span of time as the notion of "regional" control expanded to encompass all of The Control Zone and not just an ASC base's immediate AOR.

Things were changing, and in Giermo's mind- not a moment too soon.

The malcontents were gearing up and psyching up to strike- and everyone from General Leonard at the head of High Command to the freshest private in a deployed rifle company knew that it was going to be a broad and violent action. Even the RDF was fortifying in the region, bringing in additional forces and increasing a maritime presence offshore.

This too was a cause of great concern to the ASC, because despite every appearance indicative of "cooperative action"- The RDF had to recognize that the ASC would take the brunt of whatever was to come in South America.

Like the Japanese Fighting Fish, who was to say that the RDF would not reserve its strength as the ASC and malcontents exsanguinated one anotherfor the opportunity to do away with both after the initial clash?

These were questions that crossed Lieutenant Colonel Giermo's mind, but ones that he had no way of answering except with the passage of time and the unfolding of events.

Until then, the best he could do was to help Mathias in achieving his goal of having their squadron- the air wing of Salvador Base, actually- ready for flight and a fight in three minutes and thirty seconds.

 **The Outlands**

The trucks were raising too much dust.

This could not be helped, Point Lieutenant Natif understood as he monitored the progress of the shoddy column on a map- cross-referencing the few identifiable terrain features with the numeric co-ordinates provided by a small, beaten, civilian GPS navigation device- but this was his lingering impression.

There was no avoiding the beige cloud of parched desert earth being kicked up by the tires of thirty-three micronian vehicles as they rumbled and bounced along their path over the landscape of scrubby brush and sun-baked rock. The vehicles- mostly of the civilian type, but also seven large military cargo transport vehicles and four smaller personnel transports- had all been taken in raids or ambushes during the time since Natif and the unit that had formed around him had rejected the micronian ways offered to them in so-called "indoctrination centers".

Natif had seen the spineless advocacy for "life in peace" as what it was- the micronian fear of Zentraedi Warriors in their midst.

Natif, and others had abandoned new "occupations" and had taken to the land without regret- surviving as best they could by the meager resources that could be taken, but adhering to The Warrior's Code.

Early raids on isolated micronian encampments and smaller permanent settlements had cost the lives of a disproportionate number of warriors who had in those early days lacked anything more than improvised hand weapons- but these deaths were no fewer and more fitting of a warrior than those deaths to malnourishment, sickness, or exposure. With each of these early raids though, Natif and his warriors gained more of the tools and skills needed to make the next raid more efficient.

They, as with many other units that had formed in the wastelands under similar circumstances to Natif's, had adapted and survived. They had in fact survived long enough to confront the inevitable issue that arose after the concern of survival- _purpose._

As less time was consumed with the mere act of acquiring the means of sustenance, the realization began to set in to all that had sworn allegiance to Natif that The Warrior's Code could give them the basic means of surviving- but no _reason_ for surviving.

Even Natif had been forced to admit to himself in many restless nights when the bivouac fires were dying amongst clusters of sleeping warriors that without a _war_ that they were only the shell of warriors. Natif had even entertained the proposals of several of his lieutenants and sub-lieutenants that their new existence was unsustainable and that perhaps dying in a defiant raid on a more formidable target was preferable to living like scavengers on the outskirts of an alien society.

Natif had rejected these proposals after some thought, of course. Perhaps it had been cowardice as the occasional grumblings of warriors had suggested before their insolence had been quelled with reminders of discipline under the purview of The Warrior's Code- but Natif did not feel this to be so in his core.

He- _all_ of the Warriors under his command- had seen hard times and desperate moments in battling the Invid. Fundamentally, this was no different. Only on this world, in these circumstances, victory could not be seized by aggression and maneuver.

Patience had to prevail, and astute observation to be able to recognize a moment of advantage that could be exploited by the way that Zentraedi knew best.

And it had come.

Scarcely half a season earlier, and in whispers at first at exchanges of goods between the warrior factions of the wastelands who had not sunken to battle amongst themselves. Word had come from lands far to the south that _something_ was coming that would restore them all as Warriors- if they could only adhere to The Warrior's Code for a while longer.

Natif had been skeptical at first- all had.

But at subsequent exchanges, and then a short time later by trusted couriers through the frail network of verbal communications that had appeared after the marooning on this world, simple instructions had come:

 _Gather warriors._

 _Acquire weapons and supplies._

 _Choose regional targets of importance to the micronians._

 _Await word on a time to initiate action._

Some credibility had been gained by the couriers in that they would speak only to the commanders of improvised units- and only after assurances that even the four basic instructions they carried be defended from reaching micronian ears by death if necessary.

There were also the scraps of intelligence that flowed freely through micronian civilian channels. Things were happening to the south.

It all _seemed_ possible.

Natif could never convince himself beyond question that some great uprising of Warriors was building toward a single, decisive action- but at the same time it did not matter. His unit had ceased to lose Warriors to desertion in the night. In-fighting amongst factions in the wastelands had dropped to nothing.

Even if the vague promises of salvation were false- Natif and his Warriors could stand as some semblance of Warriors again.

The moment of action, of _truth,_ was approaching now- _possibly._

Seven days earlier a courier- a familiar one who had carried the messages of promise to Natif and his Warriors all along- had delivered a simple message- a date.

His stay with Natif's unit had been short- barely long enough to deliver the message and to fill his canteens from the small spring that had provided Natif and his Warriors uncontaminated water in the desolate region. Then he had gone as quickly as he had arrived.

Word came days later that the courier- a stout and able Warrior- had been intercepted further east by a micronian military patrol and had died by the only shot he had fired with his weapon- the one he had fired into his own head.

The message- the date- suddenly carried with it much more credibility in Natif's mind.

-And it seemed right.

Micronians, Natif had observed, were given at times to the observance of _rituals_ that reduced their situational awareness and as a result weakened their defenses.

Such a day of ritual was approaching, and it happened to be the same day as the date that was the courier's message.

Tactically- in terms of coordinating some kind of "grand" action as had been promised- there were difficulties in that no specific time had been set to initiate action. This was a minor concern to Natif though, as accurate timekeeping , especially as it applied to multiple, independent units of Warriors was a distant memory.

Natif knew the target he had selected though, and knew roughly how long it would take to move his unit into a position to strike at the optimal moment.

This was as "coordinated" as he could manage, and had resolved that it would have to be enough in the absence of better guidance.

The target- a permanent micronian settlement of moderate size that sustained a mixed population of micronian military and civilians would be within striking distance by just after nightfall if the progress of the column maintained its pace. Preparations would take a short time longer, and Natif had the attention of initiating his attack before first light- when micronians were typically at their most vulnerable.

The attack would be initially stunning, and by Natif's orders to his Warriors and by their determination would be costly in lives and material to the micronian population of the settlement as squads infiltrated the porous perimeter and engaged in squad-level actions any micronians that crossed their path. In the end though, it was understood that the garrison of the nearby military post that the settlement supported would engage and overwhelm the raid.

This was inevitable.

This was accepted.

For his part, Natif was weary of this world and its strange alien inhabitants.

Tonight's action would bring him relief from its frustrations one way or another.

First though, Natif had to position himself and his unit to act- and a potential problem had presented itself minutes earlier.

The possibility had always been there, as it was with any movement over open terrain- the possibility of detection by the enemy. The knowing of the possibility was not the same as the facing of the certainty though.

\- And there was no doubt that Natif's column had been detected.

"What is their position and altitude now, Delkyoht?", Natif yelled back into the rear of the 8/4 cargo truck's cab over the deep growl of the truck's turbo-diesel engine and the noise of the column in movement.

His senior sub-lieutenant, gifted in understanding the function of micronian electronics, had been monitoring the portable radar unit that had been seized in an early raid of a military supply convoy and that he had rigged to the roof of the transport for the very purpose it was now being used for.

"Fifteen kilometers northwest, Lord- at an altitude of seven kilometers. Heading almost precisely east."

Natif quickly converted the alien measurements into the system he was more familiar with and was able to roughly identify the location of the aircraft Delkyoht had detected. Based on the sub-lieutenant's reading of the micronian device, the aircraft- undoubtedly military- would pass north of the column outside of striking range of the four warriors armed with shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles spread across the vehicles of the convoy.

Neither the appearance of the aircraft, nor their maintaining of distance surprised the point lieutenant. At the time of the first calls for preparation brought by courier, an imperative for mutual self-defense by all loyal Zentraedi had been issued as well. As the couriers' messages had begun to be taken seriously, so had the call for mutual self defense.

Natif had participated with other unit commanders in organizing the best defense that could be mounted in the wastelands against the greatest micronian threat against the collective units- air power. A perimeter of whatever anti-aircraft weapons could be scavenged or stolen had been created around the area that the units had come to occupy for their characteristics of topographical cover.

The heaviest defenses had been set along the paths of routine micronian air patrols, and recently these defensive positions had even been ordered to encourage engagements when possible. As had been hoped, these skirmishes that regularly cost the Warrior units heavier casualties than the micronians had also focused micronian attention on the defenses themselves and away from the Warrior encampments and their raiding activites.

It had been a gamble- a deliberate sacrifice of Warriors in the hopes of furthering a greater good.

And it seemed that it had worked.

The very fact that Natif had been able to hide thirty-three stolen vehicles, as well as arms and supplies for 163 Warriors in rough dugout caches scraped into the walls of craters created by Zentraedi heavy energy weapons was proof. And this proof was substantiated by the fact that _other_ units in the same region had accomplished the same thing- and some more extensively even than Natif and his Warriors.

All of this could be lost now though- if the micronians chose to attack.

Why did they not attack?

Natif studied his map carefully and confirmed his initial conclusion that there was no substantial terrain that they could take refuge in for some distance. Even if defendable ground could be reached this would be of minimal defensive value against aircraft.

Perhaps the micronians were still wary of the lessons that had been taught to them recently by the defensive perimeter around the cratered region-?

As much as Natif wanted to believe this, if the micronians chose to attack the fear of anti-aircraft weapons would not survive long. Natif's Warriors, armed with surface-to-air weapons as they were had only _two_ missiles apiece. Enough for a statement of defiance, but hardly a real defense for a column of vehicles moving over open ground.

Why did the micronians not attack?

Perhaps they were not military aircraft? -Or military transports with escorts ordered only to take defensive action of the transports they guarded.

This was possible.

"Delkyoht- can you be sure that the micronian aircraft are fighters?", Natif asked as he scanned the distant skies pointlessly with a remarkably pristine set of RDF-Army field glasses.

"Not absolutely, Lord.", the sub-lieutenant yelled back over the noise of movement, "-But they are flying in four ship elements common to micronian patrols- and their number indicates at least two squadrons' strength."

Natif tried to keep his concerns from becoming visible to the other Warriors crammed into the truck's cab- they were beginning to appear edgy already.

There could be little doubt now that they were fighters passing just beyond reach- and if fighters, there was no doubt that they were equally aware of the column and that it was not a migrant micronian civilian band by virtue of the radar system in use.

Perhaps it was a fighter strike group- but one with an assignment that precluded the possibility of attack on a random Zentraedi unit that had not taken hostile action against them?

This was possible too.

Other Zentraedi units were on the move this day too-. Larger units, and possibly less disciplined in reserving their strength for the objectives they had identified for themselves.

Perhaps one or more of these had elected to engage the first micronian military units they had encountered and what Delkyoht was tracking was the RDF's response?

"Delkyoht- inform me of the slightest-."

The world shook violently as the 8/4 cargo truck seemed to lift free of the ground and Natif and the Warriors in the cab with him felt a powerful shockwave roll through and over them.

Natif did not register the hearing of any sound, but a lifetime of battle let him know instantly what the cause of the concussion was- even before the first, flaming chunks of debris that had been one of the civilian vehicles in the column began to rain down around his own truck amidst a thinner hail of the bodies and body parts of Warriors who had been crammed into its open bed-.

" _That_ was a kill-.", Maj. Vaughn "Vice" Vincenz observed with the same eager acknowledgment of death that one might have expected from a vulture.

Winters, who had fired the opening shot- a single Hellfire missile- waited for the reaction from the single-file column of trucks that they had "crept up" upon from the rear.

The fireball of burning petroleum fuel and the secondary explosions of small arms munitions cooking off had hardly changed from orange to oily black when the motorized carivan broke their line and split in every open direction to avoid the fate of their companion that had been obliterated at the rear of their formation.

"Creeping up" on the column had been no simple task, and not the plan that Winters had laid out in the briefing room at Edwards hours earlier. It had been a spontaneous modification of the plan that Winters had devised for locating and approaching a fixed position somewhere inside of Crater Range- but as all combatants knew, no "plan" survived first contact with the enemy.

The JSTARS that had been assigned to support Operation Rapier had spotted this column of suspected malcontent vehicles, as well as half a dozen others even before they had left sight of Crater Range. In a matter of minutes, every fighter and attack aircraft in the NORAMWEST triad had been called to scramble on what had started as an operation rooted primarily in the composite wing at Edwards.

Still 170 kilometers west at that time, Winters- who had been given operational command despite Mumuni's superior rank- had ordered the Adventurer II component of the strike package to assume a fighter formation and take on the course of an Outlands CAP circuit while the Valkyries cut north- well out of the range of the portable microwave radar system detected by the JSTARS- for an end-run around the column to make their approach from the rear to the east.

Though these malcontents' first indication of danger had been the loss of one of their vehicles- the lead-on moves had been taking place for nearly forty minutes.

Thirty kilometers out and already at treetop level of the scrubby mesquite and other limited plant life of The Outlands, the Valkyrie element had formed up into a sweeping line of advance and dropped to comb the weeds in the awkward, chicken-like "Guardian" configuration of the transformable fighters. Ungainly and peculiar-looking as the Guardian was, and disadvantageous as the form was for air-to-air operations, for ground attack it still allowed the options of sonic-speed approach to a zero-closure rate hover, and all with the full armaments of the ship able to be brought to bear.

Though the assault line, nearly a kilometer abreast, had kicked up an enormous dust cloud in its wake as it had advanced, with the sun still low in the sky behind it there had been little chance that the westward moving malcontents could have seen their approach.

Only the obliteration of the truck at the rear of their column had made them aware that they were being stalked.

Now their panic would work to the Valkyrie element's advantage, Winters knew- and the worst of the fight would be over in minutes.

-But hopefully _not_ before the Valkyrie pilots derived a level of _satisfaction_ from the engagement.

"They're scattering-.", Winters said, as the squadrons ate up the range and loosened their formation in anticipation of return-fire, "All squadrons, weapons free. Vigilantes, and Knight Hawks, stay hedge-top-. Werewolves and Gunfighters go high for top cover- _break!"_

Through his peripheral vision, Winters caught the hint of motion that was the Werewolves and the Gunfighters tearing away skyward from their flanking positions on the advancing line and rocketing away in the swift and nimble Fighter configuration of their craft. The squadron leader had little time to observe the break-away maneuver or the attention it drew from the malcontents as his pilots to either side of his ship began taking full advantage of the authorization to loose hell on the grossly outmatched enemy.

Thin smoke trails streaked out ahead of the line of Valkyries, converging as they went on the remaining earthbound targets that clung stubbornly to the notion of and attempted evasion. The desert seemed to explode beneath and around the malcontent vehicles, taking them in a rapid succession. A Hellfire or Maverick would strike, sending the vehicle toppling like a child's toy kicked by its angered owner. Then a second would strike, or several at nearly the same moment and what an instant before had been an easily recognizable form was dashed across the arid landscape in a scatter of burning debris.

By the time the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes closed to within half a kilometer, there was nothing remotely resembling a vehicle remaining. Fires smudged the morning desert sky with dark smoke as the earth itself in areas took on a broken appearance- as though the underworld had cracked through to clutch and claw at the world of the living.

Still, as Winters set _Marilyn_ down in a wide-legged stance some 250 meters out from the closest heap of burning carnage, there was movement from within and around the remains of the malcontent convoy.

Alone or in small groups, a humanoid form would dash from one element of cover to another. Sometimes a distinct glitter- a muzzle flash from a weapon- would accompany the movement or mark where the condemned had chosen to make their final stand.

The reply from one or more Guardian would be swift and brutally disproportionate as their advance continued at a leisurely pace on the ground in their mechanical approximation of a "chicken walk". A tight cluster of Hydra rockets, or a focused stream of cannon-round tracers would zip back in response.

Winters saw no exchange continue past that point and had no need to close the firing trigger again himself. He was aware though of the chatter between pilots as the line of Valkyries continued to move forward over ground.

Verbal exchanges were professional, cold and removed it seemed from the reality of what was being done- but there was an undertone of dark indulgence. There was a disturbing and primal human need being serviced by employment of high military technology.

 _Reciprocity._

Winters knew every pilot in his squadron and in Mumuni's Vigilantes as well, but did not recognize- did not want to recognize the owner of the words that summed up the direction of the fight with sinister simplicity-

"I _think_ we're gonna win this one-."

Natif propped himself up against a weather-smoothed rock outcropping and awaited the decision of Fate.

He had been careless in letting his guard down, and the Invid had exploited that moment's weakness to their greatest advantage. But it was of little consequence as while he could no longer remember clearly the name of the world he was on or the mission he had been charged to execute- he could remember that the reinforcements were on their way.

That memory stayed clear and powerful in his mind as other things grew distorted and blended into one another.

Rescue- _at last_ \- was on its way.

This world that had every characteristic of a hot climate had suddenly grown very cold despite the fires of burning Regults from Natif's patrol. The flaming heaps did not even resemble the Zentraedi war machines anymore so swift and violent had been the Invid attack.

It had even stripped Natif of his body armor and both legs above the knees.

The rock that now supported Natif was warm though, and in his crawl to it he had found at least one leg that he had brought with him to put back into its place later.

He had only to wait now- Fate had all but decided in his favor already.

 _Reinforcements were coming._

Blurred as his vision was growing and distant as sound had become, he could still feel the tremors through the ground and hear the motorized whir as Regults were advancing in their heavy step up to and through the site of the ambush.

They would drive off the Invid, possibly even pursuing them back to their Hive

Invid were only truly defeated when the battle was fought and won in their own nest.

Natif resolved that he would wait by this rock for the time being though.

With reinforcements would come a new suit of body armor and a new Regult to carry him- and perhaps in their sweep of the area the Warriors reinforcing his patrol had already found his other leg.

He would need that to pass his next inspection.

In his dimming vision, he could see them moving up now and he waved to signal his presence.

It was possible that a fellow Warrior might stop to give him water.

He was now almost as thirsty as he was cold- but even this he could endure as these were distant discomforts and all would be set right as the reinforcements arrived from the rear.

Natif was almost free of this world- he could feel it.

Winters wasn't sure what need had driven him to dismount _Marilyn_ , which still squatted low in Guardian mode some twenty paces away. There was no practical reason to leave the relative safety of the Valkyrie, and every reason not to- this was not a good decision.

Still, Winters had decided and was now swallowed in the immediate aftermath of revenge.

The air was hazy with smoke and the stench of burning diesel fuel and whiffs of cordite as the occasional bullet still cooked off within the burning wreck of a truck.

Otherwise there was silence save the thud and crunch of Guardian feet on desert soil as the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes explored the products of their operational success. There were no screams of agony from the wounded, no pleas in an alien tongue for assistance or curses of defiance.

Only the light desert wind and the snap and crackle of the nearby fires consuming what would burn.

Winters followed the blood trail- two broad and irregular streaks of deep blue-green.

It had been the sight of the trail that had for some reason caught his attention within the cockpit and had prompted him to get out. Now, as the drag marks and the twin trails bent around the side of a rock outcropping, Winters registered just how foolish he actually was being.

He had done worse.

He had done worse _this morning._

He had only done what had needed to be done, and this- no matter how distasteful was part of it.

Winters unholstered his .44 revolver and thumbed back the hammer to the cocked position. The weapon felt unusually light for its size and the glitter of chrome gave it a nobler, more distinguished air than perhaps what it deserved for its occupation.

" _Jack-! What the hell are you doing?_ "

Good question.

Winters recognized the voice as Pinball's, and that he was hearing it over Ott's Guardian's external speakers- but it _was_ a good question that Winters was turning over inside of his own skull.

" _Jack this area ain't secure yet- get back into your plane and let Air Assault mop up!"_

The drag marks and blood trail ended in a pool that had formed at the gnawed-away stumps of the source and owner.

The malcontent lay half-draped over the rock outcropping, an arm around it the way a shipwreck survivor in the water might be expected to cling to flotsam. His other arm clutched a severed leg to his chest possessively as though it were a rare commodity that might be snatched from him.

The alien wheezed in the short pants of the dying and with a shift of the wind Winters caught the strong coppery odor of alien blood, the earthier wreak of accumulated sweat and grime from outdoor living, and an undertone of urine that quite often was an olfactory marker of the wounded.

Glassy, the Zentraedi's eyes rolled to fix unsteadily on Winters, seeing past or maybe not seeing at all the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson Model 29 pointed directly between them.

There was a hint of recognition there.

"Just put one in him if you're gonna, Jack, and get back in the plane!"

Winters realized that his wingman, Vice, had joined Pinball in observing his strange extra-vehicular activity.

The trigger would not move under his finger though as the Zentraedi continued to stare at him- _through_ him.

"Nothing personal, you understand-.", Winters said, finding his own tone appallingly conversational, "-You were just being a bit rougher on my chaps than I could allow. –But nothing personal."

The Zentraedi's arm came up, allowing the dismembered leg it clutched to tumble free of its grip, and made a waving motion at Winters in full extension.

No, not waving- the fingers were grasping.

He was _reaching_ -.

Winters was suddenly aware of the flask zipped securely in his flight suit's breast pocket. There was no conceivable way that the alien could have known what the bulge was, but the pilot was equally certain that it was what he wanted.

As Winters thumbed forward the hammer of his revolver and holstered it again, he unzipped the pocket with his flask. To the west, a distant but familiar sound took distinct form and made perfect sense.

Helicopter rotors from the Lakotas attached to the 113th Air Assault Division that had been at the Fort Irwin training center, and had been eager to trade a training experience for actual trigger time when Major General Butler had made the inquiry.

Knowing the general destination, the 113th had set out hours before the faster Valkyries and Adventurer IIs of the fixed wing component to the operation, but were only now arriving to the post-fight.

Dust swirled as Winters felt the rotor blast of several Lakotas as they passed directly overhead.

Looking up, he saw eyes in faces under combat helmets staring back at him and at the general mess that had been made of the desert.

Looking back, Winters found that the Zentraedi was no longer reaching for drink or wheezing for air. His eyes were still open and eerily still fixed on the pilot, but he was no longer there.

Dry as Winters found his own mouth, he slipped the flask back into his pocket without drinking.

"-Sorry, old boy- nothing personal."

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

Bars, and particularly _military_ bars were never intended to facilitate wholesome and heart-warming holiday gatherings.

Almost the opposite, bars on military bases had at holiday times the tendency to become the place where personnel separated from home in the joyous seasons went to avoid that reality. Most often- the vast majority of times- this was done with the consumption of much alcohol, but with few "incidents". Sometimes, inner sorrow and frustration surfaced, and the local stockade or brig could be counted on to be more heavily inhabited.

It was no coincidence that holiday times were the busiest times of the year for MPs.

There were alternatives on any post to the designated and approved watering hole, of course.

Mess staff seemed to understand the great importance of their services at certain times more than others and would put in that greater measure of effort to soften the blow of separation from family with cheery decoration and the best seasonal menu offerings that could be managed. These elements _helped_ , but in the end there was nothing that could be done to make cold grey and stainless steel feel convincingly like home.

In the end, it was the responsibility of the individual to manage the "holiday blues" and to decide for themselves the way they would muscle through until they could be joined again with loved ones.

"Opie, we are _so_ gettin' laid-.", Petty Officer Thatcher said, checking to make certain that his uniform had retained the immaculate condition it had been in upon entering the lounge some hours ago.

The waitress had just brought a fresh round of drinks, the third bought by the two sensormen for themselves and the two civilian contractors that they had coaxed away from the bar to join them at a table. The two strikingly attractive programmers with Eastern European accents had vanished minutes before to the ladies room in group fashion that was for some reason customary to women, and unless they both were hiding the bladders of camels, their extended absence could only be accounted for by primping and conversation that had to take place away from their male company.

There _was_ of course the outside possibility that they were slipping the company of the two NCOs, but there had been no indication that this was the case. They had been engaged in conversation about home, their work, the "meaning" of the unexpected orders that was keeping so many of the military personnel on the GS-95-.

Things were going well.

"-You just play that, _hey, I'm Scandinavian too and it'll be just like home_ shit", Thatcher instructed like a quarterback outlining the critical play of the game, "and I'll pull the, _hey, I'm dark and exotic_ angle- `n _BAM!_ "

Petty Officer Orson Cobb picked up his glass of beer and after a moment's thought pointed out, "Poland isn't Scandinavia, Thatch."

Thatcher, undeterred picked up his own beer, "Yeah, well neither is Minnesota, but if you wanna be cleaving something soft and pink later, _you find a way to make that shit work-._ "

"Aye sir, tracking that.", Cobb agreed.

Thatcher was halfway to sipping through the foam head of his beer when his eyes fixed on something beyond Cobb and in the direction of the restrooms.

"Contact, zero-six-zero, CBDR-."

Cobb set his beer down and worked to quickly get his game face on again. A few more rounds of drinks, a little more small talk about inconsequential things, and the evening promised to have a good return on investment. After all, Thatch had refrained (as much for his own benefit as Cobb's) from letting slip his strangely appropriate nickname of "Opie", and-.

 _Her name-. What was her name again?_

Cobb felt his face start to flush with panic as he realized he could not remember the girl's name exactly but brought it under control again.

It was some strange Slavic twist on _August_ , but after three or four beers and seeing how those inviting hips had curved around into a very comfortable looking personal seat cushion as she and her friend had sauntered off to the ladies' room- that final syllable or two had just abandoned Cobb.

 _Goddamnit, think or risk hairy palms and blindness!-_

"Beata, Augustynka-.", Thatcher said waving the girls back in toward their chairs and their fresh drinks like a carnally motivated LSO.

 _Bless you, Thatch, God bless you and God damn Budwieser-._

Beata, slightly shorter than her companion and noticeably thicker- especially through the chest as Thatch liked his women- settled back into her chair and leaned in over the table eager to re-engage in conversation where it had been left off. Her pale skin was rosen from gin and tonic from her blonde hairline down to the inviting hint of ample cleavage that had appeared where the buttons of a company work shirt had miraculously come open sometime during her time in the bathroom.

Cobb noticed this as well, naturally, but Augustynka made a point of grazing his hand with the full contours of her bottom as she maneuvered into the chair he had pulled out from under the table for her.

Oh yes, things were looking good.

"So what is it you do now in Fleet?", Augustynka asked as she collected her long, brown hair and draped the silken mass over her shoulder to fall across her less substantial but nonetheless impressive chest.

The accent to Cobb was all Bond film villainess- _naughty_ Bond film villainess.

"We crew the _Gordon P. Samuels_.", Thatcher said, quicker on his feet than Cobb to respond and still able to assist his lady friend in finding her drink, "We're sensormen- _trackers._ Tracker team leads, actually-."

"What we do is interpret the signals gathered up by the ship's sensors and determine what's a good guy, what's a bad guy, and what's nothing but cosmic noise-.", Cobb elaborated as perfect jade eyes watched him unblinkingly and with a hint of a strong buzz.

Beata motioned emphatically, saying, "My first job was calibrating sensor arrays after installation! I started on older PRS-32s, but got job writing software for newer phased arrays last year. Better systems-. More- _how you say?- deeper reach?"_

"Oh, _much deeper._ ", Thatcher agreed, on the surface at least, "You never worked on the _Sam_ did you?"

The technician/programmer thought for a moment, working through a cloud of gin to sort through memories of the unmemorable.

"Don't know- but maybe you use my equipment, yes?"

"Hope keeps me living-.", Thatcher said with genuine sentiment.

Augustynka's full lower lip pouted dramatically as she said with some regret, "I write and customize simulation software- I don't think you've worked on anything of mine."

Feeling daring, Cobb let his hand slide from the back of her chair to the small of her back, saying, "Well, you never know- everyone aboard ship has to have at least one alternate job- and I'm a notoriously good multi-tasker-."

"-And we _all_ appreciate it, Petty Officer Cobb!"

A chair was yanked out from under the table next to Thatcher and Cobb's, and before all four feet had met the deck again, an individual high on both trackers' list of persons they least wanted to come across in a social situation had occupied it.

"Lieutenant Jeffrey Randall, ladies-.", said the Alpha Veritech pilot as he extended his hand first toward Cobb's companion, "-And you are Augustynka- how do you do?"

A quick and jovial pumping of joined hands followed before Randall repeated the act with Thatcher's interest, "-And you are Beata-. How do you do?"

Dumbfounded, Beata asked, "How you know our names?"

Randall, rocked his officer's uniform-clad, highly fit form back and forth in his chair, ran his fingers through his meticulously groomed, sand-colored hair, and replied seriously, "Well, in my line of work, you have to have a keen eye for detail and you have to pick up on it quick, _or-_ Oh, hell- who am I kidding?- I heard Thatch and Cobb here say your names-."

Cobb wasn't certain if Thatcher felt it too, but for himself the sudden change in the direction of the ladies' attention had nearly torn his eyebrows off.

"You are pilot then?", Augustynka asked, as though Randall's every attempt to show the wings on his chest was not clear enough. _Civilians-_ they never noticed such details.

"Combat aviator, ma'am- I'm with the Star Streaks aboard the _Samuels_.", Randall said, "And these gentlemen are an integral part of the team that gets us into the fight- they deserve your respect and admiration."

"What can we do for you, Lieutenant?", Thatcher asked with that practiced "polite" tone that actually said, _piss off you miserable cocksucker._

"Well, here's what-.", Randall said speaking directly to the trackers' quarry, "The squadron over there, we stepped in for a drink-."

The squadron was easy to identify as either by invitation or some invisible magnetism that worked only on civilians, the women in the lounge were gravitating towards them. There were few fighter squadrons left in the REF that were strictly male- but by luck of the draw the Star Streaks had managed this condition.

It made the scam they were now working- that they had worked before- that much easier. They had found at some point that their cooperative tactical skills extended beyond the cockpit.

"-And", Randall continued, "We got a little sidetracked getting here so there weren't any good tables really."

"That's the benefit of _forethought_ over _trained reaction_ , sir.", Cobb pointed out.

Randall nodded, acknowledging the two NCOs without actually acknowledging them, "True enough-. But as I was saying, my wingman Wilkes there- he's the one who was too shy to come and talk to you directly, miss-."

Beata blushed and stole a quick glance at her "admirer".

"As I was saying, Wilkes there knows a guy who works the training center here on The Factory, and found out that one of the gravity chambers has just gotten some minor maintenance completed. So, instead of being jammed up into this stockyard, we're getting a few people together to take the party to the gravity chamber. Have you ladies ever been in a zero-G chamber?"

Augustynka replied, "-Of course, for trans-atmospheric flight orientation-."

"Ah, yeah-.", Randall said, "But that's not zero-G tag, is it?"

"No, we've never tried that.", Beata admitted as the allegedly "shy" Wilkes was making his way toward the table to join the growing company.

Randall slammed his hands, palms down onto the table, exclaiming, " _Well, damnit then!- It's time!_ "

"What's time, boss?", Wilkes, who had forgotten that he was supposed to be bashful, asked with a smile and a nod to Thatcher's _former_ companion for the evening.

"Damnit if you didn't peg it, Wilkes-. They've never played zero-G tag before. They'll need a drink or two first, but once the edge of fear is gone- I think they'll be naturals."

"Roger that, sir- they look all natural to me."

Wilkes made an ushering motion in the direction of the buzzards that were the Star Streaks, and the sensormen's female companionship left without a parting word.

Cobb rationalized that since the invitation had seemed open to all at the table, that the two young women had seen no need for parting salutations.

 _Civilians._ They just didn't know.

Randall watched as the male to female ratio of his group equalized more by two before turning his attention back to the emptier table occupied by the two petty officers.

"So, how are you guys doing tonight?"

Thatcher picked up his beer, "Fuck you, sir."

Cobb had lost all interest in his own drink but added, "Yeah, fuck you very much, sir."

Randall got to his feet in a single, spry hop, "Oh, _you're_ not fucking me tonight, guys- thanks for the offer, but I've got better prospects. Thanks for warming them up for us though."

Thatcher shook his head, clearly wanting to say more but knowing it was a fight whose odds were stacked against him in every way.

Before slipping away, Randall added, "We'd really invite you- _really_ \- but there's that whole fraternization thing and-. Well, you know."

Neither petty officer chose to look in the direction of the evidence of their defeat, but rather rediscovered their beers.

"I can't tell if we just got cock-blocked, or ass-raped.", Cobb muttered after a moment. The heart-wrenching disappointment of so much work lost had not hit him yet, but like a well-placed kick in the groin- he was sure that agony was coming and would stay a while.

Thatcher shook his head- clearly he was feeling the first waves of it- "No. No, no, no, no- no _motherfuckin' no!_ That did not just happen."

"That just happened, Thatch. Have your beer."

"That wasn't no cock-block, Opie- we just witnessed a- a _snatchnapping!_ "

Cobb shrugged, "Well, we're bunked in an overflow barracks tonight anyway-. Where the hell were you thinking of taking them? Not a heck of a lot of private places on this hollowed-out rock."

Thatcher shot Cobb a burning glare of indignation, "Just be pissed off about this with me for a minute, will you? I hope she's got something that makes his dick rot off."

Cobb shrugged, "Well, if that's true- then it would have been your dick that would have rotted off if it weren't for Randall. Does that mean he did you a favor?"

Thatcher smoldered, " _You're just not getting this horny and enraged thing, are you?"_

Actually, Cobb understood perfectly but was determined to not let it get to him. The Star Streaks and their hoard of buxom acquaintances would pull up stakes soon and allow those with less glamorous occupations access to the water hole.

And besides, with the world as it was- if this was the worst that happened to them all night, they'd be doing well for themselves.

 **The Outlands**

What twenty minutes before had looked like the scene of a massacre now looked like the scene of a massacre hosting an armed forces open-house.

A detachment of air assault troops and their Lakota conveyances had set down to "secure" the area of the fight and to begin to sort through what remained to glean what could be learned by battlefield intelligence gathering methods.

Joined on the desert floor a short distance from the idle Lakotas were the Valkyries of the four squadrons that had left Edwards hours earlier.

Like their air assault counterparts, the Valkyrie pilots explored the scene with cautious and guarded curiosity- seeking souvenirs more than any telling intelligence artifact. They had been _in_ the fight and had witnessed the key lesson first hand- truck convoy vs. Valkyrie fighters-.

No contest. A knock-out in the first round, with the loser down for the count.

Or what remained of him at least.

The air assault troops in company strength, the other elements of their division that had been tapped to participate in Rapier having moved on to similar scenes of carnage elsewhere in The Outlands, searched bodies and picked through wreckage where it had cooled sufficiently. They were piecing together clues of the battle that the dead malcontents- now lined up in spaced and even rows- had _intended_ to fight, unlike the Valkyrie pilots who were reveling in the fight that the malcontents had lost.

"Well, they weren't out for a picnic, `n that's for damn sure.", Captain Ellis of Fox Company reported to Winters and Mumuni primarily.

Their executive officers, Dalton and Drake had joined Duggan, the Werewolves' CO, in investigating the peculiar site of an Army 8/4 cargo truck that had been in malcontent possession, which had also been blown cleanly in half by an AGM and left with the front end standing perfectly on its nose as though set that way intentionally.

There was no sign of Beale, the Gunfighters' CO- probably somewhere similiarly engaged.

They would get later all of the insight being imparted on Mumuni and Winters now-. But at the moment, the spectacle of the moment still held precedence.

For his part, Winters was more concerned with answers.

"-Or, if they were off to a barbecue", Ellis said as an afterthought, "They were bringing the fireworks."

The Army captain led the full and lieutenant colonels a short distance to where an abused field artillery piece lay on the ground, freed of its carriage base apparently by the explosion that had destroyed the vehicle towing it.

An assortment of other weapons found by the Fox Company troops ranging in size from mortar tubes to assault rifles had been laid out neatly nearby also to await inventory and collection.

"That ole' 105 may have seen its hay day back in The Global War, but it was still in good enough order to shoot before you folks got to it.", Ellis said tapping the piece with his booted toe, "We found twelve unexploded shells- we'll have to wait until all of the fires die down before we know if there are any cooked off rounds to tally up-. Same's true for the 100 and 80 mortar tubes. Toss in a whole lot of Soviet surplus assault rifles, with more rounds of ammunition than I would have thought you could scrape together out here, and-. Well, hell- I don't know what it means- but I wouldn't have wanted to be where they were going."

"No guesses on that?", Mumuni asked, wondering as she studied the destroyed howitzer exactly how and where the malcontents had come across such a substantial weapon in the relative waste of The Outlands.

Ellis shrugged, "We're looking, but I wouldn't hold my breath for a map with a big X on it or anything, ma'am."

"You're not suggesting they were land navigating out here by memory, are you?", Winters asked, suddenly wanting another cigarette but fighting the urge as he had already gone through five in the short time he'd been out of the cockpit.

"No sir.", explained Ellis, "But look at the mess you made of the trucks and the dittos in `em-. Paper doesn't hold up quite as well."

Winters _had_ seen enough early on and had spent the time since trying not to see any more than he had to. He understood the captain's point though. Shaped-charge missile warheads, fragmentation and high-explosive cannon shells did have a _diminishing_ effect on something as insubstantial as a map.

It was a point of curiosity now though- a moot point at best.

These malcontents were not going to get to where they had intended to go.

"-Figure though", Ellis speculated, "Those 8/4s have a range of about five hundred kliks with a full pair of tanks, and we know they were carrying extra fuel in drums- probably for the civilian vehicles. Hell, if they took the right route, they could have made it near to Nellis or China Lake- _maybe._ "

Mumuni seemed unconvinced, "Attack a military base with a towed cannon and three mortars? The isolation would have had to _really_ have gotten to them for them to try that."

Ellis shrugged again, defending his off-the-cuff theory meekly, "I didn't say it would have been a _long_ fight, Colonel. Hell, I've seen dittos stir up the shit just to get themselves wasted. Personally, I think it's a kind of depression they get-. They can't hack it being pacified, so they decide to go out like warriors. Who knows?"

Winters found himself giving in to his need for a sixth cigarette. The wind had shifted and was carrying the thick and distinctively unpleasant odor of burned alien flesh in his direction.

"It's as good an explanation as any, I suppose."

 **RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

The RDF Military Chief of Staff, General Breetai sat at the head of the table in his briefing room surrounded by the Joint Chiefs representing the five divisions that constituted the greater Robotech Defense Force.

All were as quiet with thought as the senior officer, or at least made the obligatory gesture of acting to be as Commander Weitzel of the obscure Information Fusion Division presented an early briefing at the MCS' request.

Maps and video imagery appeared on the large holographic display over the briefing table to provide a frame of reference to the REF officer's talking points as she continued in a professional tone that hinted of understandable nervous tension.

"-And while the situation in and outside of Brasilia is the most stark and shocking, it is mimicked by similar situations all throughout Brazil and The Control Zone overall.", Weitzel's disembodied voice continued clearly with a moderately detailed map of the northern half of South America showing in pulsating red dots the areas she spoke of while supplemental images flashed through on sub-windows in a slide show format, "San Pablo, Salvador, Rio de Janeiro, Forteleza, Manaus, Caritiba- the list goes on. Similar conditions are reported and being reported and actively monitored in states bordering Brazil."

"Zentraedi populations, consistent with markers defining them as _malcontents_ are withdrawing from major population centers armed for battle, but are establishing and maintaining positions without any offensive activity near to the centers they withdrew from."

"There is also lesser activity similar to what is being seen in The Control Zone taking place through Central, and even some areas of North America."

Breetai waited for a natural pause before asking, "And you say that these Zentraedi populations are consistently armed regardless of their location?"

Weitzel's voice came back immediately, "Armed _heavily_ General, sir. If we are to infer anything from this, we should lean heavily toward interpreting this to say that either they expect to be attacked, or they plan to mount an attack. Both interpretations are offset somewhat by the fact that if they were expecting to _be_ attacked, they have abandoned their greatest advantage- defensible positions, namely the civilian population centers. Or, similarly, if they are planning _to_ attack- they have abandoned their significant bases of operation."

"At this point, we can only say with some degree of certainty what they are _capable of_ \- not what they _will do_ or _why_."

"Is there evidence of communication between these malcontent elements?", Breetai asked looking for logical signs of common activity.

Weitzel replied, "There is evidence through SIGINT and Spec-Ops intercepts of couriers that malcontent groups within their own regions are communicating on a minimal basis, but there is no strong evidence of broader coordination. Not at this time."

Solemn expressions around Breetai's briefing room grew more grim as the threat of a dangerous force imbedded already in an unstable region was compounded by unclear motivations.

Breetai withdrew from the micro-cosmos of The Control Zone and expanded his scope of interest in asking, "And what of Zentraedi activity monitored by our tracking and listening stations in the Sol System?"

There was a pause, but Weitzel replied concisely, "No signs of escalation or organized activity in any sense, General Breetai. This can change quickly, of course- but of the rogue units we are aware of, there has been no indication of massing of forces or preparations to sortie to another region of the system."

Breetai remained in his own thoughts for several more moments before asking, "Are there any other updates that you need to share with us, Commander?"

"No, General- I was drawing near to conclusion."

Breetai nodded, saying, "In that case, we will speak again in two hours. Updates of an urgent nature should be brought to my attention immediately, of course."

"Naturally, sir.", Weitzel complied, "I will speak with you in two hours."

As the video conference session ended, the holographic displays vanished and the light level in the briefing room rose to its normal state.

All were silent around the table.

"Thoughts?", Breetai invited, his voice saying clearly that he had his own but was looking for perspective from the various disciplines of military operation surrounding him.

"Well-.", General Wallace, RDF-Army Chief of Staff said, leaning forward to engage his colleagues up and down the table around him, "-I can't say I see the _extraterrestrial_ element or influence that this Commander Weitzel was intimating in her white paper, but I can speak to what I'm seeing clearly in development in the American sectors. We're seeing the prelude to a big damn brush war. I think that _whoever_ is orchestrating this has set up as many simultaneous but independent offensive actions as could be organized, and we should look for them to go off all at once or as very near to at once as the malcontents can manage-."

"Given the time of the year, I think we can expect to see the shooting start inside of twenty-four hours. The Zentraedi, though not participants are nonetheless not oblivious to our major holidays and the inherent distraction they cause to normal, civilian society."

General Westenhoff, Commandant of the RDF-Marine Corps whose roles and responsibilities were evolving with the growth of the REF, allowed a gap between Wallace's last word and his first that a knife blade could not been inserted into easily.

"I'll grant you almost all of your points, Nate- but something does not figure on a basic tactical level. Weitzel hit it squarely on the head- there is no benefit either offensively or defensively to the malcontents in abandoning the population centers. Maybe if it had happened in isolation- one or two cities- _maybe_ then we could dismiss it as the rash act of a few regional commanders-. This though-."

"This smells like some common plan to me."

Wallace countered, "I agree with your reasoning, but the fact is that we can approach this as a mater of xeno-psychology and try to figure out what's driving the malcontents to do a clearly foolish thing, _or_ we can take full advantage of the upper hand we've been given."

"If the malcontents should feel the need to initiate hostilities, we have them in the open. Look at the lessons of The Tet Offensive- the flare of violence was brilliant and impressive, but it also brought the Viet Cong out into the open where they could be dealt with decisively. They were a hobbled and inconsequential force in the Vietnam War following that one action."

"I say that if the malcontents want to make some sort of statement with an act of sheer and reckless bravado- then _bring it._ "

"This time next year we may still be mending holes in South American cities and licking some wounds, but we won't be doing it while keeping an eye on the malcontents."

"Between ourselves and the ASC, we have the boots on the ground to mount a spirited fight.", Wallace's aide added, "And within forty-eight hours we'll have increased our presence another thirty-five to forty percent. There's no question about air dominance."

Breetai interjected, "All of this being what it may, I don't want us to develop tunnel vision. Not at this level. When I brief the President in a few minutes, I will present the opinion that I seem to be hearing that this is a _regional_ event- so far as we are able to determine. I doubt I will be able to convince him to raise the planetary alert level though, given the lack of activity on any of the other continents or in the rogue Zentraedi fleet elements we have knowledge of-."

"-However, I believe in constant training and that the best time to execute a surprise readiness drill is when we know our forces are least likely to be able to respond well to it-."

"Admiral Griffin, am I correct that there are full-up readiness drills that have been drafted for the REF Fleet?"

Griffin, Chief of Operations for the REF appeared slightly caught off guard by the question- particularly as he seemed fully aware of the intent behind it.

"Yes General, we have several readiness drill plans for standing up the combat divisions of the Fleet. All are geared to gauge response time in bringing the Fleet from a low order of readiness to deployment-ready. None have been executed on a large scale yet as some of the details are being finalized-."

"You've identified _precisely_ what I'm looking for, Admiral.", Breetai said, "I'm curious as to see how the Fleet is able to _improvise._ And besides, it's a training event- correct?"

"Of course, sir."

Breetai rose from the table, "Then we will meet again in an hour and a half. I will expect status reports on tasks at that time, and then we will see what new information Commander Weitzel has for us."

 **REF Schiaparelli Base, Mars**

Olympus Mons in its ancient grandeur in all likelihood did not notice the recent incursion of Man from Mars' nearest cousin in the Sol System.

Standing with its peak towering some 27 kilometers above its base, over _three_ times the height of Earth's Mt Everest comparatively, the measurable effect of Man's arrival was negligible.

More ambitious in scale and engineering complexity than either the new REF Moon Bases at Tycho, Copernicus, and The Sea of Tranquility- or its pre-Robotech War predecessor, Sera Base- Schiaparelli Base was granted without contest to be the largest extraterrestrial engineering project ever undertaken and would remain so until funding was received for and the initial stages of the Aegis Space Station- "Project Daedalus" – were initiated. With 90% of the base and all of its massive storage facilities embedded into the ancient volcanic and igneous rock of Olympus Mons- a feat of excavation that alone had taken 23 months, the Terran outpost was still little more than a scratch in the solar system's largest geographic feature.

Completed in terms of construction some 11 months earlier, not all of the elements envisioned to make the base "self-sustaining" had come on line yet. Life support was still heavily dependent on artificial air recycling systems as opposed to the eventual "balanced systems" approach in which the base's greenhouses would perform much of the work in providing life-sustaining oxygen for the human and Zentraedi inhabitants of Schiaparelli. Also, with the greenhouses not yet in full operation, the base was still dependent upon regular reprovisioning visits from REF supply transports to feed its 12,723 inhabitants.

Functionally speaking- in terms of the intent for building Schiaparelli Base- the installation was fully operational though.

Massive warehouses stocked with military material and supplies of every type were nearing capacity- brought in quietly by the same supply transports that still delivered food, supplies, mail, and new personnel to the base. Schiaparelli's mission as an emergency supply depot was proceeding in step with the timetable set for it.

In terms of self-defense, Schiaparelli was already a fortress island in the barren waste of Mars and the vast expanses of nothing that separated it from Earth.

The corridors of Schiaparelli's officers' barracking area had been dimmed to a lower level to indicate if not to exactly simulate "night" according to "Zulu" time on Earth- the clock kept on all REF vessels, off-world stations and posts. Like all things on the base where there was little in the way of luxury or frivolity, there was a legitimate psychological reason for the routine change in interior illumination. Not in all, but in a percentage of human and even the less common Zentraedi personnel- there was a true need to experience the day-and-night cycle taken for granted by those who saw the sun on a daily basis. With few exterior viewing ports, with most of the base built into the rock of Olympus Mons, and with few excursions into the hostile "outside" environment of Mars- the changing of illumination was the only semi-natural indicator of the passage of time.

The dimming of the lights seemed to have a particular effect on the small number of children that called the base home either with a single parent or both whose billet and situation conflicts necessitated the presence of the young civilians.

Lieutenant Commander Kevin Kroft, REF, found that the changing of illumination and its drowsing effects were most acute on his children Martin and Meagan after a heavy meal in the officers' mess- and particularly so when it was what was passed off by the mess staff as "turkey".

Certainly, the slices of "meat" in the hot trays on the serving line probably _contained_ turkey- in some quantity- but Kroft had grown up in a time when the real thing was abundantly available at holiday times, and he could still tell the difference.

Still, it was what Martin and Meagan knew- and oddly enough it did have the sedative quality of the real thing that was only assisted by wearing effects of the general excitement level felt all day by children on Christmas Eve, and by the hour-long show of Christmas carols put on voluntarily by the vocally gifted personnel who formed the base's choir.

Now, carrying a half-conscious Meagan who in that state was still able to cling to her father at the hip and around the neck, Kevin Kroft made the final turn onto the corridor that would bring he and his children back to the small apartment-style quarters provided for them. Martin led the way, still giving every indication of being as full of energy as an eight-year old boy could be expected to be, but his father knew better. As soon as his level of activity slowed, the day's exertions would catch up to him.

Within two hours, Kevin knew that he would be able to dig out the carefully hidden Christmas presents for his children and place them under the small artificial tree that occupied a corner of the apartment's closet-sized living room. He could then catch a few winks himself before the inevitable waking of the children at an unusually early hour for the discovery of what Santa had brought them.

It would be a nice time, Kevin knew as he handed Martin his electronic access card to allow the boy the "treat" of working the electronic door lock- but not as nice as it could have been. His wife Amanda's leave to Schiaparelli from her post on an A.R.M.D. II platform had been scrubbed, and her trip would likely be delayed no less than a week which was when the next transport from Earth was due to arrive.

It was only a delay though, Kevin struggled to maintain, and best of all- the children were unaware. Tempting as it had been to tell them that their mother would be with them on or shortly after Christmas, Kevin had kept his promise to Amanda to make it a surprise- and now he was glad that he had.

The benefit of them not knowing to expect their mother was that they would be spared the disappointment Kevin was feeling.

"You still have to read it, Daddy-.", Meagan said, sensing even with her eyes closed that she was home.

"I didn't forget, pumpkin-.", Kroft said locking the door to the apartment as it slid shut behind him.

Martin was already in the living room, pretending to make sure that the tree was still in perfect order to attract the attention of Santa- but really checking with optimism to see whether the jolly intruder may have had already visited in their absence from the apartment. A sigh said it all to Kevin.

No luck.

"Why don't you two go and brush your teeth, and I'll get the book out to read to you before you tuck in for the night.", Kevin suggested, putting Meagan down onto her own feet and making sure she was steady on them before letting go of her completely.

Still clearly frustrated that Santa was obeying the rules of Christmas and had not made an early delivery, Martin kicked the fire resistant area rug that was something of a luxury item on a post like Schiaparelli and protested, "-But I brushed this morning-."

Kevin motioned both children toward the bathroom, "And you'll both brush again tonight. Don't you know that Santa checks for clean teeth these days?"

Martin, able to spot nonsense when he came across it countered immediately with, "That's the _Tooth Fairy_ -."

It was a good attempt at any rate Kevin knew, but sometimes trickery didn't work, "Well, they're part of the same union so they share notes. Brush your teeth. Dad has to dig out the book anyway."

Knowing he wouldn't win the battle and always mindful of his sister, Martin took Meagan by the hand and led her back to the bathroom that was barely big enough for one.

Once Kevin heard the water start to run into the metal wash basin, he opened the small storage closet in the living room and brought down a box filled with Christmas items. Sorting through it, he remembered he would later have to dig out the children's stockings to be filled with candy and small nick-knacks for the next morning.

He wouldn't be stuffing Amanda's stocking for a while it seemed- in any sense of the phrase, wholesome or otherwise..

Finding the book in question, he tossed it onto the small sofa and placed the box back into the closet- closing the door when he was finished.

The duty phone on the wall just inside of the living room buzzed loudly while the on-post pager Kroft was required to carry as "essential personnel" with the engineering division went off at the same time.

Kroft paused, dreading having to pick up the phone but unable to avoid it. His responsibilities knew no break for the holidays.

He reached the phone before the fourth buzz and snatched it off its cradle.

"Kroft."

"Commander, sir- it's Lieutenant Nung, sorry to bother you."

Kroft recognized the junior officer by his voice before he had had the chance to identify himself. He was a capable Reflex engineer and knowledgeable about the function of the base's twin Reflex furnace power plant- so it was unusual for him to be calling.

"Yes, Lieutenant?- What can I do for you?"

"Not me, sir- Commander Schlosser.", Nung explained, "We're starting to run through the checks for bringing the auxiliary power grid back on-line, and he wants all hands on deck to assist."

Kroft paused in a moment of confusion and mild panic.

The auxiliary power grid _had_ been taken down the day before for routine maintenance and for tweaking of some of the system's routing nodes- but the carefully planned schedule called for the work to go on through the 26th and for the grid to be re-enabled at 0030 on the 27th. Kroft had led the detail in charge of distributing the work through the shifts and establishing the timetable of work.

"Is there a problem?", Kroft asked, hearing the sounds of tooth-brushing from the bathroom beginning to come to a conclusion.

"Not sure, sir. Commander Schlosser just showed up a few minutes ago and issued the orders."

This was puzzling to Kroft. Schlosser, his superior and the head of the base's engineering division was a dedicated officer and a consummate, detail-oriented perfectionist- but he was also rarely, _very_ rarely found in the engineering areas outside of his duty hours.

Something of concern was happening.

"Right-.", Kroft said, "Give me a few minutes, and I'll-."

Nung cut in, "Oh, no sir-. This watch can run the checklist. You're to be here in ninety minutes though. I'm just putting out the word with as much warning as possible."

Kroft heard himself sigh, "Okay- that'll be easier on the kids. Won't scare `em."

"Understood, sir. We'll see you in ninety mikes."

Kroft heard the line go dead and he hastily hung up the phone.

"What won't scare us, Dad?"

One of the things that Kroft had found consistently reliable about children, or at least _his_ children, was their ability to hear exactly the things that they should not hear, or things that could not be easily explained away. Martin was particularly gifted at this.

Kevin Kroft sat on the sofa and noticed that not only had his son brushed his teeth but had also gotten into his pajamas. The sequence of events for the visit from Santa now being non-negotiable in the boy's mind, he had bought in completely and was pressing on with urgency toward bedtime.

"Nothing-.", Kevin said, "That's why nothing will scare you. Work was just calling me because they need a little help later with something. I can read you and Meagan the story and tuck you in. I'll be back well before Santa arrives."

Martin was on his side of the couch when Meagan showed up in her night shirt and took her place on her father's knee. Bedtime stories were nothing new, it was just that this one was special for Christmas..

Getting comfortable, Meagan announced quite business-like, "Okay, Daddy- I'm ready."

Kevin chuckled- the girl had a lot of her mother's assertiveness in her.

"Oh, _you're_ ready, huh?-"

Kroft opened the dog-eared book that his parents had read to him years before and put on his best story-telling voice.

"T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring- not even a mouse…."

 **Egerton, England**

 _..You're in it now, Andy Johnson…_

Andy wasn't sure why Cedric's words that had recurred in his mind so many times over the past twelve weeks had come to him at that particular moment.

For the first time in three months- excluding the past 36 hours of course- he was totally enjoying himself and at ease.

Lucile, ever the domestic force had timed supper perfectly for the Johnson family and their guests and had begun to set out serving dishes before Andy had set his duffle bag down in the room that had been his- but felt strangely alien to him now.

His father and mother, Howard, Cedric and his mother, and the unexpected yet welcome addition of Aunt Moggie who seemed at times socially uncomfortable with his surroundings had all spent nearly three hours at the table and had eaten until they had been ready to burst and had nearly cleaned out the wine cellar before the elder Johnsons had been forced to retire with the hour.

Cedric and his mother despite the invitation to stay in one of the ample home's several guest rooms had taken their leave at that time also, accepting only Dexter Johnson's insistence that the family car and driver take the Collins home.

Hours of spirited political debate and social chat had worn both sides down to where resistance had been minimal and the offer had been accepted quickly.

Seeing his guests off from the main foyer, Dexter Johnson's last comment before following his wife up to the master bedroom for the evening had been the suggestion to his sons to start a fire in the fireplace of his study and take the opportunity to catch up on "talk between lads".

Andy had been somewhat shocked by the offer because to his living memory, his father had never been comfortable in leaving _anyone_ unattended in his most personal space in his home. He did not protest, or even allow himself to show puzzlement. The moment had been too perfect.

Andy felt that in his father's eyes, he had done something right with his life and this was his reward.

Dry and split white oak had caught quickly in the hearth and had quickly been enveloped by a radiant blaze that had filled the study with a comforting warmth and that threw shadows with the dance of the flames.

Howard had quickly found that the cabinet that his father kept his good cognac and cigars in had been mysteriously left open, implying invitation- and the three young men had been quick to take it.

With only two high-backed leather chairs available near the fireplace, Cattermole had volunteered to retreat into the shadows and onto the matching leather couch- joining in conversation as it stretched on late into the night but only re-entering the light to refill his snifter or to take another cigar from the box that remained open on the table.

Food, alcohol, and the sudden absence of stress had done the guest in at some point, leaving the brothers to themselves with only the background noise of Cattermole's impressive snoring.

"You know-.", Andy said, leaning forward to tap the ashes from one of his father's Italian Tipperillos, "-I keep waiting for Da to come kicking in the door to pin our ears back like the time he caught us getting into these when we were- _God-. How old were we?_ "

"Too young to know when to try to sneak a cigar if I remember right.", Howard said over the rim of his cognac snifter, "The left side of my ass still stings from that beating. –Could've been worse though…"

Andy remembered a sore bottom from the event also, and laughed as he asked, "How?"

Howard shrugged his way out of his uniform coat that had already been open and in an untidy state contrary to regs for several hours now.

"Could've been Ma-."

Andy laughed, nearly spilling the cognac that was allowing his mind to go to bizarre places with the thought of the scene that _could have been._

"We'd've lost our bottoms altogether, the two of us.", Andy said shaking his head with the acknowledgment of a danger never realized, "Like that tine when you were twelve and Ma had to go see the head master because you'd been caught tongue-fencing with Sara Percy. I _know_ you remember that. Hell, _I_ remember that, and I didn't even take the lashing-. The _belt_ probably remembers that-."

Howard blew rings of smoke casually- a trick Andy had never been able to master despite his best efforts to learn and Howard's to teach.

"-I was thirteen, and it was _totally_ worth the lashing. She had very gifted lips you know. You should have seen what I learned she could do with them that _next_ spring."

"No-.", scoffed Andy, "No, I probably _shouldn't_ have- but I can imagine. –Proper Sara Percy, eh? Would've never figured-."

Howard tapped the ashes of his thin cigar into the ashtray and noted how he was getting down to the nub of his smoke. He wrestled with whether he could get a few more minutes from this one, or if he should perhaps light another. It was a bit of a quandary, as his father's generosity _did_ know limits.

He chose the third option of tossing the Tipperillo nub into the fire and focusing the indulgences of his vices on liquid forms.

"So, you gonna tell me about her or do I have to pry it out of you?"

Shocked, and automatically defensive, Andy stammered unconvincingly, "Who?"

Howard rolled his eyes, " _Who-._ The leggy brunette whose ass you were target-locked to for the whole graduation ceremony."

" _Was not-._ ", Andy protested, "-You could see that from the stands?"

"No, but you took off into the crowds looking for someone as soon as you were dismissed, and later when I saw the two of you- I just figured-. Well, I don't know what I figured-. _Actually_ I do know what I figured, but I thought I'd hear your side first."

"You're really quick to judge these days, Howard- you know that don't you?"

"That's not a denial of anything."

"Or an admission either.", Andy pointed out, feeling the Johnson genetic ability to debate coming to the surface.

" _Oh for Christ's sake-!_ ", came from the dark regions of the leather couch where neither brother had noticed a sudden end to the snoring, " _He banged her like a kettle drum!- And it was gruesome, and I don't want to think about it ever again thank you very much!"_

Howard raised an eyebrow, "Ah, the truth comes out! Thank you, Aunt Moggie."

A loud snore was the only reply.

"Well-.", admitted Andy, "It was _something_ like that- only I think the whole thing was a little more polished than Moggie lets on."

" _No it wasn't!_ "

The voice lapsed into another snore.

Howard thumbed in the general direction of the couch., "Is he normally like this?"

Andy tossed the last of his cigar into the fire, though he could have easily made it last a bit longer, "The word _normal_ doesn't really apply to Moggie I'm finding."

"We're getting off subject anyway.", Howard said, "Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Do you want my advice?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then why not-."

Howard took a sip of his cognac thoughtfully before saying, "Forget her."

"What? You don't know her."

Howard laughed again, "I know the _type_. They come in both genders, too, so it's not just some misogynistic thing bubbling up in me either. She's a bed buddy."

"How's that?", Andy asked, knowing that Howard would spin out his theory whether he was invited to or not, so it was better to let it run its course.

He was too much Dexter Johnson's son.

"Look", explained Howard, "-First time away from home. All of the demands, all of the pressures-. She wants someone to cling to-. Or rather, _wanted_ someone to cling to and give her peace of mind. There's a couple like her in every bunch- in training and operational, trust me. I've written the disciplinary actions on them."

" _Well-._ ", Andy began, looking for firm footing to argue from.

"Well _nothing_.", Howard followed on, giving no quarter, "Trust your big brother on this one. Or don't-. But tell me, when you finally caught up to her- what did she say? What were her parting words to you there, lover?"

Andy set his snifter down on the table and watched how it caught the flicker of the fire that was now beginning its decline.

"Not a chance, eh?"

Howard shook his head apologetically, "Sorry, but probably not. Just as well though. Don't you have bigger issues to grapple with now?"

Still lost in moments that seemed further and further away, Andy asked vacantly, "Like what?"

Howard laughed, "God, she shagged your brain into neutral, didn't she? I'm just talking about the little matter of getting your commission, what branch of service it will be- what occupational specialty-? Little details like that."

The warm glow of the evening had deserted Andy fully now.

"Well, I'd say _intelligence_ is probably not my game-."

 **Edwards City, The Mojave Dessert**

The scene within The High Desert Pilot's Social Club was fitting of the patchwork venue.

The "celebration" going on- that _had been_ going on for hours now was not all one thing or another, but many things that merged and blended together at rough edges that normally should not have meshed.

Pilots told war stories around symbols of "peace on Earth", and toasted the day's slaughter of aliens in the same breath as wishing good will to men.

Holiday music had migrated with the children who had come with both parents into the Club's smaller, rarely used "lounge" where more holiday and age appropriate entertainment and refreshment had been provided by Roxanna- _free of charge._ Wives and girlfriends rotated through the lounge in a supervisory capacity in turns- making certain that the children were as oblivious to the activities of their parents in the bar as much as they monitored the children's behavior.

The air in the main bar was charged with a positive energy, and the mood was relaxed and informal despite the fact that a little less than an hour before Major General Butler had appeared to congratulate the pilots who had participated in Operation Rapier that morning on their stunning success. The composite wing commander had toasted the pilots, the pilots had toasted back- and the evening had carried on.

Butler had since joined Winters at his customary table with Colonel Mumuni and her executive officer Lt Col Drake for drinks and to talk as the predictable battle between the bar's ancient jukebox and slightly less aged karaoke machine kicked into high gear.

The karaoke faction was winning at the moment with Lt Col Neil "Dingo" Duggan and his Werewolves on point- observing a squadron tradition that Winters found he had even lost his XO to for the moment.

The worst part, Winters found himself thinking through the soft mental haze afforded by medium-quality bourbon, was that _none of them_ were particularly good singers.

" _I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand-."_

 _"-Walkin' through the streets of Soho in the rain-."_ , croaked Dingo to the aide of karaoke-provided piano and guitar, and with more melody coming from his Australian accent than his attempts at singing.

Dalton, _slightly_ more vocally gifted, took over as the microphone was passed to him-.

" _He was lookin' for the place called Le Ho Phuc's-."_

 _"-Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein!"_

The splintery frame and boards of the Club shook as the bar exploded with joined voices-.

" _Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."_

 _"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"_

" _Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."_

 _"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"_

 _"Ya hear `em hwlin' round your kitchen door-."_

 _"Better not let `em in!"_

 _"-Little old lady got mutilated late last night-."_

 _"Werewolves of London again!"_

Mumuni glanced over her shoulder at the chorus that was now engaged in what might have loosely been referred to as "dancing" and in the tone of one who was being pointlessly flogged, muttered,

"We're being punished, aren't we?"

Butler laughed more in surrender than in humor, "With _this_ group-? Ganyet, I think we're getting off easy."

" _Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."_

 _"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"_

Rio appeared at the table to refill Winters' tumbler from the bottle she had left there, shaking her hips rhythmically to what was being accepted as music.

Winters ground out his cigarette into the full ashtray at the center of the table and gave in to a display of affection, slipping his arm around the young woman's thin waist.

"Oh, Rio- you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be.", Winters said looking up at her as she was only slightly taller standing than he sitting, "-But my life, my love and my lady is the sea-."

Rio tweaked Winters' nose and playfully snatched away his wheel cap, placing it on her head as she gyrated her way back to the bar.

Butler shook his head at his old friend.

"You ought to give that girl a break, Jack.", the wing commander advised in a fraternal tone, "For some reason she seems taken with you."

"Marry her, you mean?", Winters asked flatly as he lit another cigarette.

Butler laughed, "I meant cutting her loose-. She can do _much_ better."

"She can.", Mumuni affirmed without solicitation.

Winters glanced back and forth between his two superiors feeling much as he imagined Caesar had felt on the Senate floor, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Mumuni's XO Drake, silent to this point said sympathetically, "Aw, Jesus loves you still, Jack-. It's the rest of us that think you're an asshole."

Winters motioned toward the bar, "I can leave if you don't want me here-."

Roxanna had brought out the "good scotch" for Butler and had left the bottle on the table which Butler now used to refill his glass over diminished ice cubes..

" _Easy_ , Jack- just busting your balls a little. You're entirely too tense for what you accomplished today."

Winters settled into his chair again in a posture that said that he meant to stay a while. Reflecting on Butler's words, he realized that the general was not that far off target. He _was_ having difficulty smelling the proverbial roses.

"I know-.", Winters admitted, swirling the bourbon around in his glass and looking into it as though it were a crystal ball that would give him answers, "-It just doesn't figure."

Butler groaned and set his drink down, "Jack, it _never_ figures. Today was just another ugly thing that had to be done in a chain of ugly things to keep the world as we know it spinning. –And that's _all._ "

"I suppose you're right.", Winters allowed grudgingly.

Mumuni glanced to Butler as though prompting him and said, "Did you tell him?"

Butler shook his head, "No, not yet."

"Tell me what?", Winters asked.

Casually, Butler said, "Lieutenant General Hume was _very_ impressed with Operation Rapier and wanted to know who had been involved in the planning of it. If we play this right, it could be very good for you Jack."

Winters scoffed at the thought, "We would have done as much by sitting on our bums for another four hours and getting called up on a scramble. Besides, Hume remembers me for my most notable skills of assaulting his staff and the ASC in general-. I've got to live that down a little more before I can expect a laurel wreath."

Butler shrugged having made his attempt, "Well, this helps anyway. Keep your nose clean and who can tell-?"

Winters felt a sudden fullness in his bladder that he had not noticed before. Pushing away from the table, he got to his feet- finding that despite the amount of bourbon he had consumed they were servicing him well. Like the nicotine from the cigarettes he'd been chain-smoking through, the alcohol was having a zero-sum effect on him tonight- neither good nor bad.

His friend Butler had been right- he was just not connecting with the overall mood tonight, and he could not even explain why to himself.

"-I'm getting my hat back-.", Winters said, retreating toward the bar.

"-So you _know_ what I had to be thinkin' when she said that she wanted to get into something comfortable-.", Maj. "Vice" Vincenz recounted to Piglet and Gecko at the bar through a grin that assured both listeners that the best of the story was yet to come, "Well, she comes back into the living room a minute or two later wearing _sweats_ of all fuckin' things, and I realize I _completely_ misunderstood. It was a little embarrassing because I was bare-assed naked on the couch by this point-."

Capt. Hamilton "Piglet" Vought laughed and shook his head, "Only you, Vice-. How the hell did you talk your way outta that one?"

"I think he was probably trying to talk his way _into_ that one, Piglet.", Gecko pointed out, "But I'm curious too-. Go on Vice, _astound_ us…"

Put off by his squadron mates' lack of faith, Vincenz continued defiantly, "Well, shit-. You know, sometimes you just have to press forward through adversity. So, the best thing I can come up with is- _Well, c'mon! It ain't gonna suck itself!_ "

Vice's limited audience burst into laughter over the lewd mental image that both were too intoxicated to find appalling.

" _And that worked?_ ", Piglet asked in true awe.

Vice sighed regretfully, "Fuck no-. I had to get into what clothes she _didn't_ throw out the window as I was going down her apartment stairs. Scared the hell out of the old couple that live below her-."

"So then there'll be no second date?", Gecko asked.

Vice shrugged, "Maybe with hindsight she'll see it was an honest mistake-."

"-Do I want to ask about this?"

The three pilots at the bar found their commander had joined them, but had likely missed the critical elements of Vice's epic tale.

"Probably not, Skipper.", Gecko advised.

Winters glanced up and down the bar and then as far past the saloon-style doors to the kitchen as his vantage point could allow.

"Yeah, coming from Vice- probably not. Has anyone seen Rio? Particularly, has anyone seen Rio _with my hat?_ "

The three pilots exchanged looks, none having been paying attention to the whereabouts of the squadron leader's significant other.

"-In the back, I think, Jack.", Vice said, "Sorry, we didn't know we were supposed to be tracking her-."

Winters growled in frustration, a sound disproportionate to the inconvenience suffered it seemed to his subordinates.

"No matter-. It's not like I don't know where she sleeps or something-. If you see her though-."

"-Get the hat. Right.", inferred Piglet, " _Nicely_ though."

" _Nicely_.", Winters affirmed, "-Or I'll kick your ass."

"Speaking of which-.", Gecko said, halting Winters as he tried to step away, "Helluva good play call today, Jack-. Thanks for letting me come back in on a win."

Winters grunted, "Some win-. It was like toad hunting with shotguns. The dumb bastards would have had a better chance shooting themselves in the head than we gave them catching them in the open like that. –But if it makes you feel better, Gecko- you're welcome."

Gecko clearly did not feel better- not now-.

"- _Okaaaay…._ "

"You coulda just kicked him in the groin, Jack.", Vice pointed out, observing Gecko's reaction.

Winters decided to withdraw from a situation that could only go badly from this point.

"I'm going to go have a piss-. Watch for Rio for me."

The men's room in The High Desert Pilot's Social Club had two atmospheres dependant upon the season.

In the spring and summer, it was hot and at its best smelled like damp cinderblocks and cement despite the arid climate of the Mojave.

In the fall and winter, it was _cold_ and smelled of damp cinderblocks and cement.

It was not intended to be a meeting place for socialization, though it had been known to be used for _socialization_ of sorts by some- most notoriously, Vice. For Winters though, at this moment, the men's room was perfect in its simplicity and utility.

At the moment, it was a _refuge_ from socialization, and as urine began to splash loudly into the long, trough urinal mounted crudely on the wall opposite the single plywood toilet stall, Winters appreciated its _other_ utility as well.

Interestingly, in its latter function- the cold even seemed to help.

The creak and slam of the door into the bare block was a familiar sound to Winters as he had learned the door had a tendency to resist being opened at first, and then give to the point where it nearly threw itself into the wall. Nothing was unusual about the men's room door banging open, and one learned to maintain a "stream" despite the reflex to jump.

Something _was_ different this time- but not in the sound.

Something in the way that the hairs on Winters' neck stood up.

Something was out of place.

Despite the alcohol that had brought him to this sanctuary of relief, Winters zeroed in on the peculiarity after only a moment.

"Ganyet- if you're here to help, I should remind you that tapping more than three times constitutes playing with it. And we should _really_ just keep our relationship professional."

Mumuni laughed, "Thanks, no-. I'm only interested in _adult_ sizes."

It was cold in the men's room, Winters rationalized without comment as he secured and zipped.

"People will talk regardless-."

Mumuni folded her arms over her chest and got the expression on her face that Winters knew all too well. She was in "commanding officer mode", she had him cornered, and she was going to get answers.

"So, let's have it then.", Mumuni said, as though the "it" was a thing out in plain view between them to be discussed, "What's got you in such a snit?"

"I don't know-.", admitted Winters in a mumble, "Today-. I-. I just don't know."

Mumuni's expression was now one of equal parts concern and bafflement, "Can you _guess?_ \- Because I'm really not getting you, Winters, and I'm wondering if you're not permanently cracked up! You're sullen and bitter when you're busted, you're sullen and bitter when you're winning-. Do you have a history of depression in your family that didn't find its way into your medical jacket?"

Winters swiped violently at the air, as though deflecting Mumuni's probing.

" _Oh, for Christ's sake Ganyet- back off!_ "

Mumuni, half Winters' size did not budge an inch or blink an eye but came back at him with equal force, " _I can't back off, Jack!_ I can't back off because you're a sharp, intuitive officer, and you're sniffing at something in the air- _and you won't give me even a hint at what it is!_ So give!"

Surprisingly, Winters did not find himself in a fighting mood. He and Mumuni both had their blood up, but it wasn't _at_ each other.

"I really don't know, Ganyet. Something about today doesn't feel right. We caught almost two hundred Zentraedi warriors out in the open. It was stupid for them to be moving like that in the daylight- _clearly_ stupid. _First day in the field_ stupid. And these blokes had experience under their belt. –And so did the five or six other units that got shot up outside of Crater Range."

Mumuni blinked and rationalized, "Maybe it was like Ellis said-. Maybe they didn't have a point except to bring a fight and get themselves killed."

Winters dismissed the suggestion, saying, "No-. You can walk out into the desert with a rifle to find trouble and get yourself killed. These buggers were hauling _artillery_. They were looking to _kill_ before they got themselves killed. If you're doing that, you move under cover of darkness and damn sure _not_ in broad daylight. They were moving at that time because they _had to._ They had to be somewhere at a certain time, so they were all forced to move out- and _that's_ what we tripped over today."

Mumuni nodded understanding Winters reasoning finally.

"I can see that, Jack- but the fact is that we did spot their movement, and we _did_ put an end to whatever they thought they were going to do. We stopped them, remember?"

Though he knew how irrational it would sound, Winters replied, "Did we? Because it doesn't feel like we ended anything except a couple hundred miserable lives."

Mumuni shrugged helplessly, "What can I say? War's hell."

Winters forced a grin, "Yeah, war's hell."

Mumuni motioned toward the door, "Come on, I'll buy you a drink and we can toast a miserable victory."

"Sounds good.", Winters agreed.

Before Mumuni could reach for the handle, the door to the men's room flew open with unusual force and Scooter rushed in.

The pilot was sweating more than his customary drinking sweat, and his hand clutched at his abdomen about his belt buckle as though he'd been gut shot.

"Sorry for barging in like that- but, _you know_ -.", Phillips explained glancing desperately at the toilet stall.

"Right-.", Winters said, "We were on our way out anyway. Just give us a second to attain minimum safe distance."

Scooter bolted for the stall, saying urgently as he went, "Better hurry- this is gonna be brutal!"

Winters opened the men's room door for Mumuni, advising, "We'd better do as the man says-. More than anyone I know, Scooter knows his shit-."

The main bar room of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club had not lost tempo or even skipped a beat in the absence of the two squadron leaders. If they had been missed at all, it was a well-concealed fact.

Only Major General Butler showed signs of interest at Winters and Mumuni's comings and goings, and seemed relieved that they had emerged together and peacefully from the men's room.

"So what are you drinking?', Mumuni asked, fully intent on making good on her promise to buy the next round.

"Something _strong_ and sure to cause liver damage.", Winters said hopefully.

Rio intercepted the two from behind a small cluster of pilots holding Winters' hat out to him and wearing a scornful look that was directed more at Mumuni than her man.

Winters read the expression for what it was, explaining to Rio, "Honestly, it's _not_ what it looks like-."

A small, impish grin appeared on the portion of Rio's face she allowed to show.

A joke? Yes, almost certainly her stab at humor.

Winters only had the energy to give a small laugh.

"You're evil, you know-."

The power in the bar died- the lights flickering out as the jukebox that had begun playing again went silent.

"Hey, Roxanna-.", someone yelled in the blackness, "For what you charge for drinks around here, you _could_ pay the electric bill you know!"

There were a few laughs, but what Winters was most aware of was that Rio had found him in the darkness and had her arms tightly around his mid-section like a child seeking protection.

He was also aware that the knot- the knot in his belly that had been conspicuously absent during the mission that morning had returned and felt to be the size of a cannonball.

He noticed also that the darkness was not limited only to the bar.

Points across The Antelope Valley that should have been shining with the lights of Edwards City and its suburbs were also dark.

Then the emergency alert pagers, worn by every pilot and critical operations officer in the bar began to chirp in the same shrill and urgent tone.

Winters heard a voice that he barely recognized as his own.

" _Oh Christ-._ "

 **Sol Traffic Control and Threat Monitoring Center,**

 **Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado**

Since it had first become operational in 1966 as a secret command facility for the U.S.-Canadian cooperative command, NORAD, few locations on Earth had borne the responsibilities of keeping the vigilant watch for the threats of unparalleled destruction the way Cheyenne Mountain had served in this capacity. The responsibility of raising that flag had been a very real one since the facility's conception, but one that all hoped would never have to be executed.

It had come close on a number of occasions when the threat had only been that of the thermonuclear destruction that Man had become capable of bringing upon himself.

The first true execution of that duty came with the appearance of Dolza's Imperial Fleet that preceded by mere minutes The Zentraedi Holocaust- and since, Cheyenne Mountain had stood watch with all hoping that the flag would never have to be raised again.

Only now, it seemed that it would.

General Adelle Thurgood had lived through one holocaust and its aftermath already, and had dedicated herself to seeing that if it were at all within her powers that nothing of the kind would ever happen again.

Despite all of the active measures and the intelligence, and contrary to every indication of what _should_ have been true- it looked from her post in the STCTMC that it _was_ happening again.

And on her watch.

It had begun just over a minute before with a gravitational flux so strong that initial reaction in the STCTMC had been that an "impossible" failure of the triple-redundant monitoring instruments had occurred.

A massive EMP that had darkened half the planet had put that possibility to rest moments later, followed by the almost instantaneous appearance of space-going bogeys- hundreds of them, building rapidly toward _thousands-_ at all points around the Earth.

All questions and hope that it was not what it seemed had survived scarcely sixty-two seconds.

Now, all that remained for Thurgood was the duty of raising the flag.

The scenario to report did not require the assistance of analysts or of the computers that were calculating the next move of the enemy that had just appeared.

Thurgood, over the rising clamor of task-oriented conversations around her, picked up the receiver from the red telephone at her commander's console and said with a noticeable tremor to her voice despite her efforts-.

"Coms, flash to all operational and emergency response commands: _Wormwood._ I repeat, _Wormwood._ "

" –This is _not_ an exercise…"

255


	4. Wormwood

**Chapter Three**

 **Wormwood**

" _Damn-_ I hate it when I'm right…."

CDR Anne Weitzel

RDF Intelligence,

Information Fusion

Division Chief

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Platform,**

" **Archer 42"**

Festive events aboard an A.R.M.D. II station had a diminished quality because of the fact that like all other things in a restricted space, they hey had to be run in _shifts_.

As with a copy, of a copy, of a copy the _celebrations_ held later in the sequence had a faded and diluted quality about them.

So it was with the last of the parties being hosted in Crew's #1 Mess.

Subject to the rhythm and schedule of the station, the mess had welcomed its final lot of revelers into its decorated space that still smelled heavily of the smoke, alcohol, and the party fare of the previous two festivities at the time when the mess should have been emitting the more wholesome smells of a breakfast menu.

The party-goers had not commented on the residuals of these forerunners as they had arrived. The mood was already forced like a feigned smile that smarted just beneath the surface with the sting of canceled leave and dashed hopes of being _anywhere_ for the holidays besides Archer 42.

The shared sentiment was oddly combative for the event.

Officers, NCOs, and enlisted alike were fighting the blues for something that could be held up as a semblance of joy.

Rather than relax and rejoice, all showed a quiet determination to simply unwind.

It was to be _that_ kind of a party.

Lieutenant Commander Queffle retrieved another can of beer from the large tub of ice that had been garishly dressed in red velvet draping and set on the center of a mess table. Shaking it free of the cubes that clung stubbornly to its chilled aluminum skin, he cracked the tab,, poured the amber contents into a clear acrylic storage cylinder that normally would have held dry goods. Now its capacity was prized and would be used for a ritual that served an end completely out of step with anything that Christmas traditionally stood for.

The CO passed the improvised drinking vessel through a chain of hands that deposited it after a dozen exchanges on a table across from an identical container filled to the same mark. The stage for competition was now set in a contest that was a sprint-race to inebriation.

"-Now-", Queffle said as the foam head on the second vessel settled to roughly the same level as the first, "-As the official ranking and _responsible_ party on deck, I want to make it _perfectly_ clear that this is _not_ a _drinking contest_ -."

Lieutenant Amanda Kroft gazed through the side of the cylinder in front of her as another _official_ of the event plucked her pilot's wings from the collar of her utilities and deposited them with an emphatic splash into the fermented bath. She could not tell definitely whether the blurred appearance of her occupational badge was because of the bending of light brought on by convex plastic and beer, or on the several shots of Mr. Daniels' black labeled libation that she already had under her belt.

As thoughts often did with drinking, an odd one zinged about the inside of her skull with a sense of urgency that was disproportionate to the question at hand:

 _Was it liquor before beer- blah, blah, something-?.._

 _No-_ , _beer before liquor_?..

 _Oh- fuck it._

Whatever the limerick warned, a hangover was imminent in either case, and spicy chicken wings were almost as good in an encore performance anyhow.

Kroft was comforted somewhat that she would not be alone in this sad state. The lieutenant from the station's engineering division who sat across the table from her, ready to retrieve his occupational pin from the bottom of his own vessel of bear was sure to be hurting in the morning too.

The fair-haired, pale-skinned youngster who easily had ten kilos of mass on the pilot had a good "game face"- but after only a few shots of whiskey to warm up by, he was already flushed and sweating. He clearly hadn't trained for this sport the way Kroft had over the years.

-And besides- the pride of the squadron had to be maintained at all costs.

" _You put that damn glowworm in his place, you hear me, Lieutenant?.."_ , urged Kroft's XO in the Blue Banshees, Lt Chris "Ramrod" Staff who whispered the mandate repeatedly in her ear with a zealot's conviction.

In any other situation, Staff's "pep-talk" would have probably been easily misconstrued as an _order_ \- but in this venue, rank was being shrugged off as much as it could be without being totally abandoned. And besides, Kroft knew Staff well enough to know that he probably had a substantial wager riding on her drinking prowess.

Across the table, a butter-bar from the "below decks" set was psyching his drinking thoroughbred up similarly.

"-This is _not_ a drinking contest-.", the CO repeated as he stepped back from the table and continued to speak to the fifty or so occupants of the mess, "-Lieutenants Kroft and Hackney are _out of uniform_ and we are simply applying the proper positive encouragement for them to get in compliance with regs again."

Hoots and shouts echoed off the compartment walls over the long-since-ignored strains of Christmas carols being played on a portable stereo as last minute bets on the outcome were made.

Kroft mentally kicked herself for not getting in on that action. Hackney had weight on her, but this was beer and she _did_ have substantial German blood in her-.

She was playing on home turf.

LCDR Queffle stepped back from the table and made an ushering gesture to Senior Master Chief Petty Officer O'Toole to take his place, saying, "Chief, can you please straighten these officers out?-."

"Aye sir.", O'Toole replied dutifully as though the station commander had ordered him to undertake a critical task, "The rules are as follow-. Once your lips hit the rim, they stay on the rim until the last drop. – _No jokes please, you sick bastards.._ Break away early, forfeit the match. Choke or puke- forfeit the match. The match goes to the first one to smile silver-. Ready?"

"You talk too fucking much, Chief-.", Kroft sneered without breaking eye contact with Hackney and finding a good grip on her cylinder, "I'm gonna whip this pansy glowworm's ass, and then _yours_ -."

" _Alotta_ beer between now and then, Lieutenant-.", O'Toole observed raising his hand in a manner more fitting to start a drag race than a drinking match.

"-Yeah, Chief?- Well get ready to have that big, freckled, Irish butt put into a sling anyway-."

 _Gong-Gong-Gong-Gong-Gong-Gong!_

The familiar and regularly heard sound swept the mess, evacuating the joviality of the moment from the smoky air with its dire overtones.

The sounding of the general alarm was not a prank that would be played under the emotionally burdened conditions, and the only officer who was authorized to conduct an impromptu drill was on deck.

"General quarters, general quarters! All duty stations set to 1SQ.", came Lt Morris' voice riding over the chain of electronically generated alarm tones. His voice had a slight tremble that in itself precluded an exercise.

"This is _not_ a drill! CO to the command center! I repeat, no shit- _this is not a drill!_ "

Personnel- officers and crew alike scattered from their places around the contest table like a pile of dry leaves hit by a gust of autumn wind before they funneled out through the mess room's two doors.

LCDR Queffle was in the station command center whose lighting had been changed to combat-operations red less than a minute after the first sounding of general alarm. The short trip up one ladder and through two passage ways had been done without conscious thought on navigating the station's corridors. Queffle's mind was on what he would find when he arrived- the transit from point to point was more distant like a waking dream. It was only Senior Master Chief O'Toole's bumping into Queffle on his way into the command center that let the CO know he had not made his journey from the crew's mess alone.

He found all stations manned as he arrived and all going through their procedures and checklists smoothly and professionally- but with a strong aura of disbelief and managed fear.

 _This couldn't be real?- Could it?_

Practice and drill had made the execution of tasks second nature, but there was a genuine sense of urgency now that no simulation had ever come close to approximating.

There was a _reality_ tied to every step on a checklist now.

"-Sir-.", Lt Morris reported as he saw Queffle enter the command center, " _Multiple_ tangos in our defensive sector and approaching our engagement zone-. First de-folds were just under two minutes ago, and they keep coming-. – _Shit_ , there's a lot of `em…. ECM false position projection system is activated, barrier system is standing by, and weapons systems are charged and ready."

Queffle's eyes had gone to the holographic display table at the center of the CC the moment he had entered the compartment, and they had not strayed. The display had been switched into tactical display mode the moment that Archer 42 had gone to battle stations, and what it was showing was alarming.

Fed by not only Archer 42's sensor systems, but also augmented through InfoLink by multiple satellite and ground-based sensor systems, the tactical display showed that Archer 42's sector of defensive responsibility was crowded- _choked_ \- with icons depicting unidentified spacecraft clustered into small groups indicative of Zentraedi probing and assault formations.

At a glance, Queffle recognized that there were far too many in his command's sector for Archer 42 to effectively deal with- and the space outside of his sector belonging to the other A.R.M.D. III platforms of the defense constellation were no less saturated.

" _Steady everyone-_ let's work the situation…", the CO said evenly.

The shooting had not started yet- unusual for a Zentraedi planetary assault. Standard Zentraedi doctrine treated orbital bombardment as less of a "precision" tactical exercise, and more as a broad stroke of destruction.

A loud buzz sounded from the area of the communications console. The ranking chief petty officer of the three crew at the station announced, "Command, Radio-. Flash coded traffic received on EAM Frequency One-. Message printing for authentication-."

A laser printer spat out a single sheet of paper before the chief at the communications console had completed his statement and had been snatched up by Senior Master Chief O'Toole before it had come to rest in the output tray. The chief from the communications console joined O'Toole and the printed message in its brief transit to the display table at the center of the compartment.

O'Toole studied the single sheet of paper carefully, noting that the form code and day code matched the values expected before handing the form to Lt Morris.

"Commander, we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message."

Morris made the same examination, nodding all the while, "I concur sir, we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message. Request permission to authenticate-."

Seconds slogged by century-by-century, and the temptation was great to simply order the opening of fire on what was clearly a hostile force. There were procedures to be followed though- Queffle was not in command of a squad of infantry on a firing line. Archer 42's arsenal was somewhat more _substantial._

Lt Morris handed the CO the message form as he retrieved the authentication tables from their place in the small shelf built into the side of the display table. In the course of any given day, multiple coded signals could be received by a space platform and were in need of decoding.

It was however the first time that Morris had opened the binder to the EAM section with the expectation of finding a genuine message calling Archer 42 into action.

Queffle examined the form, verifying for himself what Morris and O'Toole had already stated- that the format was correct to accept and authenticate the message.

The large, bold-face type that occupied the text portion of the form read a simple and purposefully enigmatic:

" **H7SV94WT** "

"Ready to authenticate, sir.", Morris said, his voice edgy but with no signs of impending panic.

"Authenticate Hotel Seven Sierra Victor Nine Four Whiskey Tango."

Queffle handed the form to O'Toole who read the text out loud a second time, "Hotel Seven Sierra Victor Nine Four Whiskey Tango."

The communications chief received the message next, reading aloud, "Hotel Seven Sierra Victor Nine Four Whiskey Tango."

Finally, Morris had the form in hand, and once more all heard, "Hotel Seven Sierra Victor Nine Four Whiskey Tango."

"Message is authentic, sir.", Morris said, reading the corresponding text from the authentication ledger, "Scenario Wormwood- Clear indications of full-scale planetary assault. Action Plan Hector- Commanders are to engage and destroy or divert all hostile or unidentified craft entering their assigned EZ at all costs. Nuclear release is authorized at commander's discretion."

Queffle had imagined this moment as he was certain all commanders had- the moment when the training and preparedness of the officers and crew under his command might have to translate into execution. He had thought about the moment, but had never dedicated much thought into what bracing words he might offer his subordinates in the face of such horror.

In truth, he thought the words would come to him.

Queffle had none.

"Fire Control, lock all gun and missile batteries into LRATS and designate primary targets by proximity-. Chief of the Watch, retrieve the arming key from the safe please-."

"Aye sir."

 _ **Thuverl Salan**_ **Class,** _ **Destroyer 2913**_

Commander Iyos could not pinpoint the exact moment with certainty, but her apprehensions had evaporated suddenly with the approach of battle.

It was not _battle_ itself that had given her pause, or even the fact that this was her first battle with charge of her own command, but rather the _composition_ of her crew that had waken her at night from time to time over the past season and a half.

 _Destroyer 2913_ was in all respects now reflective of The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl, and of the 5121st Destroyer Squadron- though no Warrior of the enforcer caste acknowledged it openly. The "improved" _norghil_ caste showed no indication of even perceiving the situation, or its social peculiarity.

The Te'Dak Tohl that constituted her officers and sub-officers entirely did not speak of this for the same reasons that Iyos held her reservations. These "expendables" had been provided many of the same skill and memory encoding as the Te'Dak Tohl warrior grades to allow them to function with the superior caste- but they were still _norghil._ They had emerged from stasis aware of their duties and responsibilities the same as any other Warrior, and in exercise after exercise- each more rigorous than the last, they had borne their trials well. They had met the expectations of Supreme General Krymina and had validated the promise of the Tirolian scientists who had _customized_ their engineering.

But still- they _were_ norghil. Weren't they?

Iyos had recognized that the norghil warriors themselves were the least troubled by the social upset- probably because they were unaware of their disadvantage.

They did not recognize their own inferiority to the officers and sub-officers they passed in the corridors or from whom they received orders.

They did not know the history of the treacherous irony of their existence and employment- that _they_ served Te'Dak Tohl aboard a ship that _had_ served their own kind before it had been _commandeered_ in a purge of the norghil crew.

A purge of two norghil armies in fact

Iyos recognized that they did not grasp this irony because they had no reason to suspect or suppose it- but her Te'Dak Tohl officers and sub-officers were _very_ aware.

To these norghil, they were simply fulfilling the role in the world they had Awakened into. To them there was no question of loyalty or execution of Duty.

Iyos was weighted with the burden of truth.

She, and a good number of her officers and sub-officers she suspected, had waken from implausible nightmares of norghil failure or worse- insurrection- at critical moments of action. Horrific night visions of revolt driven by by a truth secretly discovered and plots secretly devised.

All of this was completely implausible though with no records of the purges for the norghil to discover. Certainly, no Te'Dak Tohl was going to divulge the secret.

Wasn't this the definition of that breed of horror though?- The realization of the impossible at the most inopportune moment?

But now at the moment when insurrection would be most devastating- there was no sign of anything but dedication to Duty- as the norghil had been programmed to understand it.

There was no slackening of or failures in Duty that Iyos could see from her chair high above the rear of the command deck within the command bubble. Norghil Warrior Specialists worked with Te'Dak Tohl sub-officers and officers in the numerous tasks required to fight the ship effectively. Mutiny was as far from the collective mind by all indications as failure.

The apprehension had passed- even if only temporarily- and had only afflicted those knowing the "truth". It had been a symptom of something like conscience- only where no true offense had been committed.

They had only been _norghil_ of course.

The alien world lay ahead now, occupying the height and breadth of the main viewscreen- its darkened hemisphere defined clearly by the background of the celestial field. Sensor and tactical overlays to the image identified clearly the primary targets both in high geosynchronous orbit and on the continents of the planet itself.

Iyos was familiar with them all, at least of their target classification and priority, from countless tactical and pre-operational briefings that in turn had been reinforced by as many simulations.

In simulation, every conceivable scenario had been played out- even those that seemed unrealistic in the extreme. Iyos and her command had performed well in most, exceeded expectations in many, and per the unspoken intent of simulation had died the Warrior's death in enough to learn valuable lessons.

As most of the "realistic" simulations had anticipated, the alien population had not- in the short time the assault force had been out of hyperspace- commenced defensive operations.

Surprise had been achieved completely by all indicators.

Why were Te'Dak Tohl forces not initiating the action then?

That was a question that only Action General Trefna could answer.

Iyos had come to know Trefna by his conduct of operations through a dozen campaigns or more. He was a meticulous planner with foresight and an eye for details that may have seemed trivial to other commanders- and likely for these reasons he had been chosen for the initial assault on the alien world.

Iyos also knew that his adherence to his "plans" could also be Trefna's weakness. He preferred what he considered the certainty of a well-developed battle plan to the random variables of quickly-initiated, improvised action. This inflexibility had cost the lives of warriors in the past, and so long as Trefna held command authority it would again- but as long as the action general's command philosophy yielded the desired result it was a philosophy (and the associated flaw) accepted by the higher echelons.

From Supreme General Krymina's perspective, it was perhaps even more accepted since a higher percentage of the "lost" was now to be norghil.

The answer to Iyos' main question of why the _attack_ had not yet been ordered to commence was actually quite simple.

Trefna was waiting to have _all_ of his units in place to initiate.

Trefna was no fool- he had no doubt calculated for the casualties it would cost him, and those losses to him were acceptable to adhere to the plan He had numbers- a _surplus_ \- to expend and simulation showed it would take the enemy time to thin those numbers.

In Trefna's mind, he therefore had time.

Iyos' perspective as part of the "numbers" was different- chiefly this was what drove the urge to attack- _now._

The wait for the order seemed interminable- but it came-.

"All units commence attack on assigned target objectives."

The order, passed over the command frequency felt to Iyos like the falling away of heavy shackles. She was under orders still, but free to a measure to act in the interest of her new command.

"Weapons Control", Iyos ordered, "Lock on to primary orbital targets and commence firing by battery salvo-."

The main viewscreen lit with brilliant streaks of outgoing particle beam fire- not only from _Destroyer 2913_ , but from the gun batteries of the other destroyers in the 5121st Squadron. The barrage was joined from all points around the edge of the viewscreen as other units joined in at the same command.

The tactical display, sharing the split main screen with the less functional visual display showed the track of outgoing fire and identified hits on target with a flicker of the appropriate target icon. Some target icons blinked repeatedly when contact was made by an "outgoing fire" track, while others remained constant despite energy rounds passing cleanly through them.

Iyos was too much an acquaintance with battle to be distracted by the spectacle of action to not notice immediately the puzzling results of what should have been a uniformly devastating gun barrage on the alien space stations picketing their homeworld.

"Weapons Control- verify battery tracking with your firing solution on primary targets. Why do the targets remain?"

"Command, Weapons Control-. Liege, our firing solution is consistent with the target plot- but we have negative impacts. We are checking target acquisition and turret training systems now."

Iyos thought for a horrible moment that perhaps her _irrational_ fears about the norghil members of her crew might not be as irrational as she had convinced herself of them being.

A report from another duty section, equally crewed by norghil assured her that she was not witnessing the opening of an elaborate mutiny-suicide pact conceived of by her "improved" norghil crew.

"Command, Sensor Control-. Liege, narrow band sensor scans of the target positions are revealing- _shadows_ are the only way I can describe them. We may be firing on a false image-."

Iyos knew the solution to this problem immediately, unsophisticated as it was.

"Weapons Control, discontinue directed salvo fire on targets that have _not_ yielded confirmed hits. Switch to broad pattern fire on those targets and rapid-fire the guns. Reset your firing solutions on detected impacts!"

"Yes, Liege!"

The orderly pattern of outgoing fire from _Destroyer 2913_ dissolved into a scattered spray of energy weapon fire as the ship's guns became an extension of its sensory systems.

There was a moment's humbling that came with not being able to perform so simple a task as identifying and engaging a target after seasons of planning and training. A sense of pride followed quickly for Iyos though, that she had recognized the failing and improvised a solution in the span of seconds- and an appreciation of the resolve being displayed by the crew.

They were _in the fight_ now, and not showing signs of being frustrated or dissuaded by the unexpected.

Iyos wondered if Trefna would have shown the same resilience.

There was the disquieting fact however that within the first minutes of the first battle of the campaign- a campaign so meticulously planned for and rehearsed- that the enemy had displayed a capability that had _not_ even been conceived of.

Iyos was suddenly aware that her inclination to charge into the attack and drive into the enemy could, under the circumstances, be an ill-advised mode of operation.

There was now a question of what _other_ abilities the aliens had that she and the Te'Dak Tohl were unaware of.

Trefna's meticulous planning had no allowances for the unexpected.

Compensating took place at Iyos' level and with the commanders of the other ships around her.

This was battle now- and survival, and more importantly victory was dependent upon skill, cunning, and the intangible whims of Fate.

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Platform,**

" **Archer 42"**

The hangar deck of an A.R.M.D. II space platform had never resembled what Kroft had considered the conventional definition of a "hangar".

Hangars on ground installations and even to some extent the hangar decks aboard larger REF spacecraft were open, expansive spaces. Their functional design and operational flow centered on the aircraft they serviced much like ladies in waiting around a Regis.

Hangar decks on A.R.M.D. II platforms had always had the feel of a factory production line to Kroft- a _high-tech_ production line, granted- but a production line nonetheless.

Aircraft when not actively in use were kept in a maintenance/storage compartment at the center of the station in "racks" not completely dissimilar from those one might expect to find in a large warehouse with the exception of bracing and anchoring gear designed to keep the inactive craft secure until they were called for.

When the call came, automated hoists and shuttles extracted and ferried the war machines from their berths through heavy, flash-proof airlocks into the "tube room" where aircraft was married to armament by yet more automated gear and was received and inspected by their pilots.

While the spaces and equipment were painstakingly designed for efficiency, and the movements of machines and deck crews carefully choreographed- there was something coldly industrial about the process. It was a production line for effectively turning out slaughter.

Kroft could only equate the sensation she felt at seeing it each time to a scene from _Metropolis_ in which the distinctions between flesh and machine were blurred and blended.

But wasn't this the Faustian proposition accepted by Man in adopting Robotechnology?

The sensation production line slaughter was still with Kroft as she hurried, trying not to look panicked, from the pre-flight room to the deck of Tube Room- Port Three. The sensation was with her still, but muted by the numbing effects of sheer terror and waning mild intoxication.

She and the other pilots who had prepared themselves quickly for flight in the locker room had done so with minimal conversation and only a few obligatory attempts at bravado and humor. Kroft was certain it was for the same reason.

No pilot ever felt fear for themselves of course, because _it_ was always something that happened to _someone else._

If there was fear it was fear for those who would not be "strapping in" in a Veritech cockpit within moments to do battle. They were impotent in their own defense- dependent upon others.

It was fear for those that the pilots had left on Earth and who had become known to the other pilots of the squadron by photo and story and shared letter- and on rare occasions when families had come together during periods of leave or rotation.

Kroft felt fear that grew and spread like creeping vines fro- the uncertainty of what was happening on Sol's fourth planet while so much was unfolding near to the third.

The tube room was alive with activity at a frenzied pace. Aircraft handlers, ordinance crews, and deck personnel worked in a near blur but retained an air of control that kept the sense of hazard minimal despite the rate at which tasks were being executed.

All of the tasks, of 39 NCOs and station crew- some as young as 18 or 19 years of age- centered around the three Alpha Veritechs locked in their shuttle frames and in place over the launch tube apertures in the deck.

As Kroft located her fighter situated over Tube 7, she found that the ordinance crew was in the process of inserting fuses into the four MAPM-7 Basilisk missiles attached to the Alpha's hard-points. Kroft had championed the addition of external weapons mounts to the Alpha platform with many others- but at the moment when events seemed to vindicate her efforts, there was far less gratification than she had expected.

Maybe it was that _four_ Basilisks seemed a pittance against the force that rumors had already told the pilots of.

" _Goddamn_ if this doesn't beat all-!"

Kroft had barely noticed her wingman Lt "Snuffy" Dane until he had muttered the words that seemed grotesquely understated.

"Yeah, don't it though?", was all that Kroft found herself able to reply to the statement before regaining her focus, "Get on my wing as soon as we're clear of the tube. I don't expect bandits to be waiting, but they can't be far off."

"I'm the guardian angel on your shoulder, boss.", Snuffy said as he parted ways with the CO and headed for his own fighter that was next down the line.

Kroft made a quick, cursory examination of her fighter from the tail to the nose as she walked up along the port wing outside of the shuttle frame. She had worked with the crews who had just completed prepping her aircraft throughout the course of her tour on Archer 42, and they had never failed in even the smallest of details in readying her ship for flight.

Saucer-eyed as they all were, there was no reason to suspect that they would begin now- and moreover, Kroft was now feeling the pressing weight of time.

Moments spent on deck were moments not spent closing with the enemy- so contrary to standard practice, she opted for only the most minimal visual inspection.

There was a heightened sense of urgency as Kroft's plane captain helped her into her cockpit and began to work with her on her straps and suit attachments. There was no small talk this time as though any possible distraction from what the pilot was about to engage in would have dire consequences.

As Kroft secured her helmet to the collar of her pressure suit, the plane captain tapped on the top of her head.

"You getting air?"

Kroft nodded and gave the thumbs up- her vocal cords were not working properly she found and she didn't want to squeak out an answer that sounded in any way feeble.

"Good hunting, Lieutenant- give `em hell."

The plane captain stepped down and away from the cockpit as the canopy came down and settled into place with an assuring _click_ of a good, hard seal. Kroft got a last glimpse of the deck crew looking back at her as the plane captain gave a thumbs-down signal into his palm and the fighter descended smoothly in its shuttle frame down through the launch tube aperture.

The receiving chamber of the launch tube glowed a soft read from the interior illumination as the hatch above slid again into its closed position. Kroft normally considered this her moment of peace in her solitude- now she only felt alone in it. She considered briefly taking out the picture of Kevin, Martin, and Meagan to brace herself up- but there was no time for it.

The logical and trained portions of her brain were taking over now.

There was some cold comfort in that.

Kroft touched the "START" icon on her main MFD and observed carefully the processes as the fighter came to life around her.

"Tube Seven Shooter, this is Raven- I'm coming on-line now. Engine start is good port and starboard. Life support is green and air supply on the top peg. Nav is go-. Coms and InfoLink are go-. Radar and IFF are go-. Weapons master safety is on, and master arm switch is safe. –Put me into space."

"Copy that Raven. Power up and stand-by."

A small signal lamp just over the launch tube began to flash yellow as the air that had not been pumped back into the station's circulation system was evacuated and the inner tube doors were opened. Kroft eased the throttles of her fighter up to the firewall and felt the vibration and strain of her ship against the shuttle frame clamps.

As the name implied, the shuttle frame was at its simplest function a bracing structure connected to the magnetic rail shuttles of the launch tube that carried the Veritech down the tube's 75-meter length, and would open at its termination like a clam shell to release the fighter into space.

At this moment though, it acted as an arresting force until the magnetic catapult operator, or "shooter" saw fit to release Kroft from Archer 42's grip.

The flashing yellow signal turned a solid green that meant a moment until-

Kroft was slammed back into her seat that she had already pressed herself into as the magnetic rail shuttles and thrust from her own fighter cooperatively hurled her through the featureless black of the launch tube toward the star-dotted patch of space that marked the end of the tube's run.

The launch tube and Archer 42 were left behind in literally the blink of an eye, and as the Alpha's acceleration stabilized, Kroft found herself lighten into the feather-like state of weightlessness that was unique to space flight. This was the only facet of this sortie that promised to be "normal" though, Kroft suspected. "Normal" was about to be redefined.

Kroft's eyes, keen by nature and trained to observe and quickly assess picked up almost immediately on the flash and zip of outgoing energy weapon fire from A.R.M.D. II platforms in the defense constellation.

It was not until a heavier enfilade began to reply, seemingly from the void itself, that the reality and not just the fear of the moment set its teeth into Kroft.

" _Shit-_ we're next.", Snuffy muttered, speaking the exact thought that all combatants had a silent agreement not to voice.

"Not without a fight first.", Kroft replied, wanting to be more coarse in her correction of her wingman There was no point in escalating the stress of the moment though. She would correct him later.

The last thought was darkly amusing to Kroft even as she thought it.

"Archer 42, this is Blue Banshee Leader, we're going to need a vector to get into this fight."

"Copy that Banshee Leader. At this time you're ordered to take the fighter group fifty kilometers off from the station and orbit to await further orders-."

Kroft's first instinct was to ask for a repeat of the orders given- even though she had heard them quite clearly. She had been dressed for the ball and was now not being allowed onto the dance floor.

The explanation she was wanting came to her after a moment's thought.

The fight was not yet hers to have- or any of the hundreds of pilots who like she were now in a holding pattern. The enemy was still too far out, and to advance past the sphere of the A.R.M.D. II constellation was to fly into the teeth of the beast as it chewed at both sides with the escalating exchange of fire.

No- the only sensible thing to do, if battle allowed a "sensible thing", was to wait for the fight to reach them.

"Roger that Archer 42, we're withdrawing to orbit. Banshees, form up in column by loose deuce on me and follow- will designate our orbit area by InfoLink. Fierce Fowls, you're in trail-."

Kroft randomly picked an empty patch of space the ordered distance from Archer 42 and marked it with a few taps of her fingers on her navigational MFD as a rallying point. One area of the void was as good as another- the critical element was that it kept her and her pilots out of the duel between the heavy units that was at most minutes away.

Oddly a sense calm and order had returned to Kroft.

She had orders to execute and command to occupy her mind for now.

The demons would surely return at some point when the Archer 42 fighter group was circling lazily, awaiting the fight. The wondering would come back about Kevin, Martin, and Meagan like Amanda Kroft's own personalized hell that was the long period of waiting for the first moments of sheer terror that was war.

"-Pardon sir, you want me to _what?_ ", Senior Master Chief O'Toole asked- not in insubordination, but genuine shock.

Queffle received the nuclear arming key from Master Chief Phelps and Petty Officer Agra who had both been required to open the dual-combination safe that had contained it.

"You heard me Chief-.", Queffle repeated feeling himself short of breath from a growing tightness in his chest. Not panic, but the weight of knowing that he had a function to perform and a limited and shrinking amount of time to do it in.

The command center's tactical display was showing a growing number of the other A.R.M.D. II platforms in the constellation engaging in a fight that was heavily in favor of the other side. Queffle had ordered the coms channels to be taken off of the command center's speakers because he did not want his officers and crew to be distracted by the inevitable soundtrack of what he was seeing at glances now on the tactical display.

A.R.M.D. IIs would loose their missiles and engage their guns in defense of the planet, as was their function. Then, having attracted the attention of the enemy, the reply would come down on them like the hammer of God Almighty himself and in short order each engaging A.R.M.D. II would be cut to pieces.

Queffle was close enough to the communications suite to hear through the headsets of the Coms team the confusion and terror of the final moments of people on other stations broadcast out on common command channels. Try as he might, Queffle could not totally block that out and did not want those around him tasked with specific and critical functions to have to try.

"-Get emergency evacuation procedures started.", Queffle continued, "Pull whatever non-essential hands you need to get it rolling by word of mouth and start moving people down to the shuttle deck. Chief Phelps will assist with the launch of our weapons, we'll set everything into automatic mode, and then I'll sound the evacuation alarm."

O'Toole nodded, slightly shocked by the order as a single shot had not been fired or received yet, but understanding as he was seeing and comprehending all of what the CO was privileged to.

The darkly affectionate nickname for A.R.M.D. crews of "The 90 Second Club" for their expected longevity in any kind of a real fight had suddenly taken on a dire reality.

"Aye, sir."

O'Toole vanished from the command center faster than someone of his full figure should have been able to move, and Queffle's last glimpse of him was of the Senior Master Chief appropriating for his new task two crewmen whose battle stations were with damage control in the Operations module of the station.

"Master Chief Phelps, report Pegasus battery status-.", LCDR Queffle ordered moving to the supervisor's console in the command center's fire control suite.

Phelps, a rail-thin and sickly pale, middle-aged man with sharply contrasting dark hair was already performing his role and had procedures for weapons release in progress.

"One-sixty in the pods, sir-. One-sixty showing green and safe.", Phelps reported, "Sensors are tracking passively and Fire Control has identified priority targets by proximity. We just need command authorization for launch, sir."

Without pomp or ceremony, Queffle inserted the large, brass command key that had been retrieved from its safe only moments earlier into its slot in the fire control console. He had done this before, normally turning the key 90° left of center to the hash mark labeled "SIMULATE".

This time, Queffle turned the key 90° right, to- "ENABLE".

"Commander, we show good system enabling across the board. All pre-flight boxes are green.", Phelps announced, "They're ready to fly."

"Tactical offensive recommendation?", Queffle asked attempting to show no great apprehension as the icons denoting enemy warships in Archer 42's defensive sector moved progressively closer with each refresh cycle of the display.

Lt Morris, who had joined the senior officers and staff in the fire control suite was reviewing the output from the Tactical Situation Assessment Computer, replied, "Commander, TSAC recommends an intermediate-range full sortie of our Pegasus missiles for target saturation in depth followed on by gun engagement of proximal targets."

Queffle smirked, "-Damn computer costs ten times what I'll make in a lifetime and it doles out the obvious like it's Yoda's mentor… Lock in the flight programs and release profile."

Morris nodded to the senior fire controller who with a series of keystrokes affirmed the TSAC's recommendation and translated the program to Archer 42's main weapons battery.

"Profile loaded, Commander. Arming run set for twenty thousand kilometers."

"Remove firing safeties.", ordered the CO.

"Removing firing safeties, aye… Firing safeties off."

"Shoot."

Four launcher pods, each the size of luxury home yet virtually weightless in the constant plummet of orbital flight, had already raised out of their storage niches on extending gimbals. In the face of each launcher, forty muzzles gaped darkly, tracking in deliberate and fine movements a patch of distant sky. Each tube contained a Pegasus Mk -4C ASM, with each electronic mind already contemplating and calculating the interception and destruction of an inbound space cruiser too distant to even be seen by their human masters.

Deep within the A.R.M.D. II station, a decision to commit was made and a trigger closed sending a command out to the weapons riding on electrical impulses.

In rapid succession and with the control and precision only achievable by a computer, each tube in each of the four launchers emitted what appeared to be the gentlest puff of white smoke as the primary rocket stages of each weapon fired sequentially. Missiles ten meters in length sailed free, looking like a swarm of arrows over the fields of Agincourt before their main, sub-light drive engines engaged and carried them off like bolts of lightning into the void.

A Pegasus, no different in configuration or purpose from any of the other 159 of its siblings loosed by Archer 42 followed with single-minded determination the flight path assigned to it. In all of the complexities of computer processors executing line after line of carefully refined and tested code, there was no comprehension by the weapon that it was racing to a goal of its own destruction.

Rapid pulses of electro-magnetic energy searched a pattern in the void looking to confirm a target that the initial guidance and target acquisition programs assured would be there.

A pulse return matching the search parameters came back to the Pegasus, focusing the sensors' efforts and prompting the weapon to make slight alterations in course for an intercept.

The Pegasus penetrated the forward screening units of the Zentraedi assault force, ignoring smaller scout vessels as targets in the pursuit of a single vessel chosen at random by another computer for its position within the task force. Range on target was devoured at a rate that two decades earlier would have been deemed impossible based on the propulsion technologies available.

Even at these great speeds though where actions and reactions were played out in the span of nanoseconds, the Pegasus Mk-4C detected and adjusted for an attempt at evasion by its quarry as its terminal approach.

A Zentraedi _Thuverl-Salan_ Class destroyer, built and operating on behalf of The Robotech Masters since the time when the pinnacle of human flight technology was piston engine driven monoplanes met the Pegasus Mk-4C nearly head-on. The weapon, an incalculable fraction of the size of its target, met and pierced the armored outer skin of the warship with a penetrating shaped charge. The tongue of focused plasma easily broke the surface tension of solid terilium hull and frame, boring through structural elements and interior decks where the bow of the vessel began to slope more dramatically into her midships region.

It was doubtful that the destroyer's crew was even aware of the missile's impact before the nuclear warhead that had ridden through the hull breech in the wake of the shapd charge's plume detonated.

Much of the vessel sublimated with the heat equivalent to a star's corona. What was not instantly rendered gaseous was ripped apart by the pressures generated by the expanding metal vapor and scattered as unrecognizable debris into space.

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

Action Commander Khlothe was gone, as was _Destroyer 7790_ that had been both post and home to Iyos since her first memories after her Awakening.

 _They_ were gone- officers and warriors whom Iyos knew by name, and those whom she had only come to know by sight and recognized in the corridors.

Gone was the familiar and unique feel of the ship, along with its sounds, smells, and particular quirks that gave the "perfect copy" of every other _Thuverl Salan_ its unique character.

Gone, it was, in the best way a warrior or a ship of the Fleet could hope to pass into oblivion.

Gone in execution of Duty.

And gone in a blink of the eye.

 _Destroyer 2913_ had holding station in trail, high and right of _Destroyer 7790_ in the advancing wedge formation when Khlothe's vessel had been hit.

More accurately, _Destroyer 2913_ had had this vantage point to witness the flash that had filled the viewscreen and cast long shadows over the command deck at the transitional moment for _Destroyer 7790_ between being a functional participant in battle, and then a churning, rolling cloud of burning metal vapor.

It was cleaner death- a _better_ death for a Warrior than many were fortunate enough to have- certainly better than languishing in agony and expiring from wounds, or being torn to bits by Invid.

Fate had favored Action Commander Khlothe in this way.

And Iyos found that this distinction was not making the least bit of difference in the reaction welling up in surges from her warrior's core.

"Nuclear weapon technology-.", Iyos' first officer, Berr said with an indignant tone of distaste- as though _Destroyer 7790_ had been felled by a sling and stone.

"-Uunsophisicated."

Berr, also a former tactical actions officer from _Destroyer 7790_ , had not been Iyos' first choice for a second-in-command. He was competent, but his imparting of the obvious as though it was profound wore relentlessly at Iyos' patience.

"-But effective-.", Iyos added, finding herself sounding winded as though having just run the length of her command.

Action Commander Khlothe was gone- meaning a void had been opened at the top of the chain of command.

Iyos forced her eyes to traverse the short distance from the viewscreen to the tactical display to assess what other losses the 5121st Destroyer Squadron had suffered.

Alarmingly, five vessels were missing from the late Khlothe's command- abscesses in the advancing wedge gaping now where identifying icons had been a moment before.

And the 5121st was not the only unit to have suffered clear losses. Trailing squadrons, advancing staggered parallel columns showed holes also where ships should have been in their formations.

"Communications-.", Iyos proclaimed before the thinking of it had fully run its course through her brain, "-Send to the squadron that I am assuming command…"

This may or may not have been a breech in the order of succession to Khlothe's former position- but Iyos was sure that if there was a surviving officer with seniority over her, command- and its responsibility- would be quickly wrested from her.

"Order all units to break station and proceed on mission on the course of the commander's choosing."

"Yes, Liege!", came the reply from the communications officer on the command deck as the orders were relayed.

Iyos' edict was completely symbolic by this point and only legitimized what the surviving commanders and their destroyers were already executing. Freed of the obligation to hold station in a formation, each ship was free to act first in its own defense.

Based on how quickly Khlothe and five other commanders had been taken by the alien defenses, Iyos was uncertain as to how much her first order would matter-.

But it gave each unit a better individual chance.

"Helm, institute random and radical zig-zagging in both axis to our next objective waypoint -. Do not provide them a steady target!"

"Acknowledged, Liege!"

"Sensor Control, find me a target to shoot back at!"

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Platform,**

" **Archer 42"**

Lieutenant Commander Queffle watched as the last weapon track representing one of the Pegasus missiles fired by his station found its target- absorbing the target icon into a flashing orb (the "kill bubble") that depicted a warhead detonation.

Twenty-three seconds.

It had been twenty-three seconds between the moment when the fire control officer had closed the launch trigger and when the last weapon had completed its programmed flight.

131 kills.

11 misses- where the weapons could not acquire and intercept an alternate target before exhausting their fuel and self-destructed by program.

8 intercepts with weapon malfunction resulting in failure to detonate.

All was silent in the command center.

Knowing the statistics and specifications on Zentraedi warships well, LCDR Queffle was aware in a distant way that he and the three other individuals directly involved in the launching of the weapons had just killed more sentient beings in a matter of seconds than had been killed in many human wars.

It did not register in any emotional way though.

It was not supposed to, and in truth there was no time for such a reaction.

Archer 42's individual tally was mirrored with minor deviation by the other A.R.M.D. II platforms in the defense constellation's hemisphere. Per prediction and war game simulation, there was significant decimation apparent in the Zentraedi force's lead elements.

The realization and accuracy of this prediction was blunted somewhat in the satisfaction it brought to Archer 42's crew because the prophecy of this particular scenario had not fully played out yet.

Archer 42- the constellation's hemisphere as a whole- had inflicted almost unthinkable carnage on the hostile force- but the gaps opened in the alien lines were already beginning to close and any indication of casualties suffered by the Zentraedi was diminished by their numbers remaining.

The analogy of trying to sweep back an ocean wave with a push-broom crossed Lieutenant Commander Queffle's mind.

Another analogy that came to mind was that the A.R.M.D. II constellation was a heavy weight boxer with a single, powerful punch to him.

That punch had been thrown and had landed a solid blow- bloodying the nose of the Zentraedi, and even showing some signs of mildly stunning them.

The effect would wear off though, and all knew that the battle would then take on a radical change of course.

"We're done here.", Queffle announced calmly, but with the volume and conviction to convey his sincerity to his subordinates without having to repeat himself.

"Chief Phelps, engage barrier system and lock our guns and Ballista batteries into auto-fire mode- prioritize targets by proximity."

"Aye sir."

Queffle looked at his XO, saying, "Mr. Morris, sound the general evacuation alarm. All hands are to abandon post. Let's get the hell out of here before they start to hit back-."

"Aye sir."

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

 _Well disciplined chaos._

Paradoxical as the term sounded, even in his head, it was the only description that Petty Officer Orson Cobb could conjure as he ran with Petty Officer Thatcher- and a pack of over eighty officers, NCOs, enlisted- and even a number of contractors- through the broad main corridor of this module of the GS-95.

As the corridor joined with connecting passages and companionways, bodies both uniformed and in civilian contractor attire would split off as well as join the "stampede".

That was another good word, Cobb found himself thinking- _stampede_ \- and perhaps more appropriate than _disciplined mayhem._

The pack, that at a glance now contained both human and indoctrinated Zentraedi, had a collective sense of direction and urgency in their movement. And like the mass, panicked movement of cattle- there was the danger of being trampled underfoot should one not keep up or stumble.

 _Herd… Wasn't it a herd then and not a "pack"? Wolves "packed", cattle herded to the-._

Cobb stopped the thought before he could think it to completion.

He had a ship to get back to,.

Cobb could not even recall how long he had been running, or the point at which he had started. A personnel tram- the system of which ran constantly in the massive station- had carried him and Thatcher as far as the junction between the core module of the Factory and the connective arm of this one.

Whether it was "fortunate" or not, was yet to be seen but they had stumbled off the tram along with around a hundred other personnel just as the massive blast doors were beginning to close. Had they not been on that tram, or had the multi-carriage conveyance been forty-five seconds later in arriving, then the two Trackers would have been hopelessly separated from the Factory module in which their ship, the _Gordon P. Samuels_ was moored for rotation into the repair yard.

At least now, if they could keep from being run down by their fellow starfarers, they had a chance to get aboard before-.

 _Before what?_

The thought had not crossed Cobb's mind until this moment- but what exactly was the _Samuels_ going to do from a slip in the repair yard?

 _Something… Anything…. Who knew?_

The "who" who knew and would decide was Commandeer Devereaux.

If she had to push the _Gordon P. Samuels_ out of the spacedock doors herself and then throw rocks from the foredeck at the enemy, Devereaux would have her ship in the fight. Cobb knew that much.

The only real question was whether he and Thatch would be able to get aboard to be part of the action.

As the jetty opened into the dockyard that serviced half a dozen repair slips, the crowd around Cobb and Thatcher dispersed into three almost, equal-sized groups that deviated in the directions of the three ships being serviced on the yard.

It was as the group belonging to the _Samuels_ bore left toward the main gangway accessing their ship that Cobb noticed that for the second time in the evening he and Thatch were in the company of Lt Randall and his Star Streaks.

-Most of them anyway.

If there had been an air of superiority about the fighter squadron commander and his officers earlier over Cobb and Thatcher from whom they had stolen a promising evening, there was now concrete evidence of _equality_ \- at least in terms of their situation.

Faces red and sweating with the exertion of running, hair horribly unkempt- they were every bit the image of men caught off guard as the two sensormen they now were keeping pace with.

Cobb had never been a great believer in karmic "pay-backs"- but in a moment both sadistic and woefully removed from the gravity of unfolding events- he found himself wishing sincerely that the alarms had started to sound just as things had begun to get really _engaging_ for Randall.

" _C'MON DAMNIT! We're droppin' lines!"_

The warning came from inside the inner doors of the station-side gangway airlock connecting the _Samuels_ to the GS-95 Factory-. A Seaman First Class who was likely all of nineteen but looked all of twelve with fear was beckoning with broad swipes at the air from inside the Factory-side airlock.

Fear may have exaggerated the seaman's youthful appearance, but had not embellished in the least the urgency of his warning.

The airlock doors were beginning to slide close.

Once shut, whether it was by fifteen meters of gangway or fifteen light-years of space, those members of the crew not aboard the _Samuels_ would be severed from the ship.

Peculiar as it was to Cobb, the prospect of missing the moment he'd drilled and trained for- of failing in his _obligation_ to his shipmates- was more terrifying than the near certainty of full-scale fleet action.

The crowd around Cobb and Thatcher surged collectively at the seaman's warning- finding that reserve of strength needed to run the last stretch in an all-out dash.

The mass of _Samuels_ ' crew crushed and ground into one another as they funneled through the shrinking aperture of the closing airlock doors

In this manner, Cobb found himself swallowed by the gangway beyond- and carried at a running pace, stumbling through the airlock of the _Gordon P. Samuels._ Confronted there by a bulkhead after only a short span of corridor, enlisted, NCOs, and officers alike mashed into a panting heap not unlike a clumsy pile-up in an improvised back-lot game of football.

Unflustered and seemingly amused despite the unfolding crisis, the Marine who had been standing watch at the ship's lock simply greeted all with a general-

"Welcome aboard…"

 _ **SDF-3**_

"What do you mean, _not cleared to leave port_?"

Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter among her many well developed skills and abilities had the ability to convey great displeasure with only a phrase or a brief hold in her icy stare. Even if the displeasure was not directed at the individual on the receiving end of the words or gaze, it was universally agreed to be among the more unpleasant experiences that human flesh was heir to.

It was Captain Julian Hollenkamp's turn to "feel the freeze" (as staff discretely put it), and in his reply from his place on the bridge, one was aware that the effect of Hayes-Hunter's displeasure was not diluted by the conveyance over intercom.

"Fleet Command has denied our request to depart, Admiral. We are instructed to hold position and stand by for further instruction."

The Combat Information Center of _SDF-3_ crackled with the energy expected of a ship preparing to leave port _and_ readying to do battle. There was a frenzy of activities that seemed to blend together in an incomprehensible jumble- of checklists being run and system functionality being verified. Despite all of the indications of chaos, each activity was focused on a particular task contributing to a common goal.

That goal however was being blocked by an exterior force that no shipboard procedure or flash of improvisation could offset or overcome.

 _SDF-3_ 's crew was sprinting toward remaining bottled up.

Standing across the CIC's central tactical display from Hayes-Hunter, and also quite visibly frustrated through the layers of holographic imagery between them was her husband- Lieutenant General Rick Hunter.

Lieutenant General Hunter's frustration could not be said fairly to _equal_ that of Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter- a condition whose weight Hunter was only now beginning to feel.

Lisa was separated from action and execution of her duties only by the order to deploy.

He, on the other hand, had in a moment been removed completely from the equation of battle.

Before frames had begun to be fixed to the main structural girders of _SDF-3_ , Hunter had been involved heavily with Breetai, Lisa, and an immediate staff of hundreds in the advanced planning of the "expedition" to Tirol- the home world of The Robotech Masters.

Once deployed, Lisa would facilitate all of the Fleet activities required to execute the expedition plan- but overall operational command was Hunter's.

In the time it had taken tonight to identify a Zentraedi assault on Earth- those operational plans and the years of effort required to produce them had been swept aside- rendered moot.

Lieutenant General Rick Hunter was no longer an operational commander.

He was not even a billeted fighter pilot anymore.

He was a three-star _observer_ until the situation clarified and a new role could be found for him.

 _._

There were larger issues at hand than intellectual effort lost and matters of professional self-worth though. There was the real possibility that in the time that The United Earth had been hastily planning a "preemptive" attack on The Robotech Masters to shift the battlespace, and in that the nature of the conflict- that The Masters may have been planning something similar.

Though too early in the fight to determine the strategic intent of the attack, the possibility that this was some sort of spoiling action was as feasible as any other.

Determining _intent_ and _operational objective_ required more information than what was available now, and in fact both intent and objective of the enemy were low on the scale of importance.

What was of prime importance was the developing battle and the enemy's ability to influence or direct it.

Earth and satellite-based tracking systems were showing a formidable Zentraedi force- more than intelligence had predicted was remotely possible- within and just beyond Lunar orbit.

Nearly a thousand were being tracked, all of either the _Thuverl-Salan_ destroyer class, or the considerably smaller but still lethal _Salan_ Class of scout vessel.

More alarming than the overall number of vessels now occupying the most critical region of Sol System space, was the exercised and methodical staging of their movements in approaching the Earth. There were no sudden thrusts toward the planet, no berserker-style outlashings by individual commanders as could sometimes be seen with Zentraedi when revenge was a motive for battle.

The first waves of Zentraedi to de-fold and advance had had done so with the clear purpose of engaging and eliminating the A.R.M.D. II defense constellation. Per their intended role in Earth's defense, the space platforms had loosed a massive and devastating volley of Mk-4C Pegasus missiles upon the aliens- inflicting crippling, and in some defense sectors _total_ losses in the ranks.

Only the fact that Zentraedi reinforcements were folding in as the first wave was bludgeoned and continued to fold in prevented the actions of the A.R.M.D. IIs from being characterized as a devastating repulse of the enemy. The fighting spirit had not left the platforms, though their full complement of primary weapons had, and the battle had quickly shifted to a gun duel in which the platforms were woefully outmatched.

The minutes since the first exchange of energy salvos had seen the numbers of the A.R.M.D. IIs rapidly and steadily wither as station after station was knocked out of action with metronome-like regularity.

Still, there was no frenzy to the Zentraedi assault- no undisciplined reaction to the growing scent of proverbial blood in the water.

Instead the methodical assault continued, becoming a "clearing" action as the A.R.M.D. constellation was pulverized over the Earth's darkened hemisphere and continued with the approach of the Zentraedi vessels.

Keen to the tactics of space warfare and planetary assault, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter noted how the leading Zentraedi units were positioning themselves to engage the A.R.M.D. IIs that were now in the lee of the Earth, but that would be rising soon in orbit over the planet's horizon. In this way, the Zentraedi force would only have to deal with one trans-latitudinal "line" of viable platforms at a time.

The mental image that came to Hayes-Hunter's mind was that of peeling an orange. Once the pulpy flesh of the fruit had been exposed in one section, as was now being accomplished by the Zentraedi assault force on the Earth, the remaining skin was easily stripped away.

This tactical scenario did not render the A.R.M.D. IIs in the Earth's lee helpless or combat ineffective by any means. This scenario had been envisioned as a possibility and planned for, and the plan for that contingency was going into effect even now.

Parabolic missile shots, arching over the planet's poles or sweeping around the Earth's lines of latitude like great haymaker punches thrown in a street brawl were being made with regularity and in increasing numbers.

The known drawback to this mode of engagement by the A.R.M.D. IIs manifested itself quickly though.

Even at its lowest speed setting, the Mk-4C traveled at a sub-light velocity making its parabolic path from its point of launch over one hemisphere to a target somewhere in the space over the other a lengthy one and very near the weapon's maximum range. The flight programs of weapons were also prone to a higher degree of error because designation and acquisition of defensively maneuvering target vessels was being performed through the remote sensor assets of InfoLink and not those of the launching A.R.M.D. II platform.

Missiles reaching the end of their run found that targets were not where they had been anticipated to be, and with little fuel remaining to execute a target search many Mk-4Cs passed through the kill box without acquiring a target and self-destructed harmlessly in space beyond.

As the crew in _SDF-_ 3's CIC watched in real time, the trans-hemispheric Pegasus attack by the surviving A.R.M.D. IIs of the defense constellation was being staged in smaller volleys. For every Mk-4C that found a target, one would miss.

Reliability in the monitoring the battle- literally on the other side of the world- was reduced as ground tracking stations and orbiting sensor platforms were reduced by the Zentraedi. Fortunately and with lingering collective memories of the Zentraedi Holocaust, only the half-dozen ground tracking stations and a number of conspicuous military and civilian targets in North and South America had been subjected to orbital gunfire.

This was a puzzling relief to Admiral Hayes-Hunter who saw on her tactical display a force of Zentraedi ships within gun range that could have as easily been systematically razing two continents to the ground.

Open coms channels on _SDF-3_ 's CIC speakers, and multiple status boards showing available units that could be utilized by the flagship's Cooperative Combat System spoke of scores of REF vessels, building toward hundreds that were powering up and readying for battle.

Like _SDF-3_ many of them were still at mooring.

Also like _SDF-3,_ none appeared to be making any real progress in leaving port.

The ship's chronometer and the tactical display tied into the greater InfoLink network showed Hayes-Hunter that the GS-95 Factory was twenty-three minutes from entering night and the field of fire of the assaulting Zentraedi force. This was assuming that the Zentraedi did not elect to change the direction of their attack to focus on the GS-95.

In either case, moments that could have been used to sortie the Fleet were being squandered in woeful inactivity.

The name, turned symbolic phrase of Pearl Harbor came to Hayes-Hunter's mind.

"Admiral-.", the CIC communications officer said from her post, "Fleet Operations on the line-."

Hayes-Hunter pointed vigorously at her post by the tactical station, "Pipe it here!"

Almost without hesitation, the Admiral stabbed at the control to open the channel on the intercom to speaker.

"This is Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter- who am I speaking to?"

There was a pause and then the stern reply.

"This is CNO Admiral Coolidge, Vice Admiral-."

Surprised and mildly shocked that at a moment of crisis the Chief of Naval Operations was calling directly, Hayes-Hunter also recognized that she was at the disadvantage of one star in arguing her position.

"Admiral, sir-.", Hayes-Hunter said, choosing her words and tone carefully at the non-verbal behest of her husband across the holographic table from her, "- _SDF-3_ is fully armed, crewed, and powered-up to depart and I am being denied permission by the harbor master to move out. –We need to be in this fight, Admiral."

"You _need_ to follow orders, Vice Admiral.", Coolidge replied evenly- the tension in his voice accented by a sudden and notable pop and hiss of static that only came from the inevitable effect of heavy energy weapon use in the proximity of communications satellites.

"-And the orders are not mine, Lisa… They come from the MCS himself, so they are non-negotiable to either of us."

Coolidge's words were flooring to Hayes-Hunter.

After all of his advocacy for the highly secret _SDF-3_ construction program, after his keen interest in the ship's specifications and designs, to have Breetai hold her- to hold _SDF-3_ back at _the_ critical moment was nothing short of dumbfounding.

"Take solace that it's not just _SDF-3_ , Admiral Hayes. General Breetai is holding back all units that are not already engaged."

"Then he has a plan-.", Hayes-Hunter said with equal parts hope and curiosity.

"-And only he knows exactly what it is.", Coolidge said, echoing some of the frustration that Hayes-Hunter was feeling, "We have to trust in that for the moment. Stay on station, Vice Admiral and stand by for further orders. Naval Operations, out."

The channel went dead and with it any chances of arguing her appeal.

"Breetai has a plan.", Lt Gen Rick Hunter assured her, repeating the words Hayes-Hunter found on a loop in her head.

It was assuring because while Breetai was not always right, he had never been _wrong._

Hayes-Hunter looked at the tactical display and the movement of the GS-95 toward the terminator. REF vessels outside of the station had flocked to the massive facility like birds to shelter in the face of an approaching storm.

Hayes-Hunter said, trying to sound confident in what was still an enigma to her, "We have twenty-one minutes until we find out what that plan's worth."

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Platform,**

" **Archer 42"**

Order and discipline was never a question.

The progression of crew, single-file down steep stairways and through narrow deck hatches was without panic- but the sense of _fear_ was omnipresent and growing.

The _fear_ had started, appearing like the first cells of a malignant cancer, just under thirty minutes before with the sounding of the station's general alarm and the proclamation that the alarm was in response to a real threat. Those cells of fear had been kept in check, had been compartmentalized and suppressed within each crew member with the intense focus that came with the performance of duties.

Then, with the completion of duties- the readying of Archer 42 for action, the prepping and launching of fighters, the strict rituals of nuclear weapons release- there was nothing left but the waiting for reciprocation.

The _fear_ was no longer held in balance by activity.

The cancer was no longer being resisted.

It was free to grow in the individual, and with the call to abandon post and the rallying of crew to move to the shuttle deck- the fear was free to spread.

Fear spread, leaping from individual to individual like a brush fire- gaining strength and intensity with each hop.

There was order, and there was no panic- but even the collective and Herculean effort at concealment could not hide the fear felt by all.

It was the fear of only having the task of escape left, and the calculations of obstacles and time between ones' self and escape to occupy the mind.

 _Three decks, four corridors, and a compartment- that's all._

The mind raced, even going so far in some cases to estimate the number of steps that would be taken between where the thinker stood at that moment and an assigned seat on one of four shuttles now powering up in Archer 42's belly.

And didn't Archer 42 have the advantage?

False position projection and other forms of ECM had been left running full blast.

The station's power was running strong and a cold plasma barrier stood at full integrity between Archer 42 and the guns of the Zentraedi.

All of this was a serious handicap for the dittos to overcome in time required to move down two ladders, to navigate four familiar corridors, and traverse a single compartment.

-Wasn't it?

And then the first particle beam bolt struck.

Not a direct hit by the strong tremble through the station's decks and structure, but likely a glancing blow to the barrier that had not even made secondary contact with the station's outer hull- but a hit nonetheless.

The handicaps in place against the Zentraedi seemed less formidable in that instant- the vastness of space in which a particle beam had to find a relatively small target had shrunken to diameter of a target's outer ring.

Archer 42 seemed to gasp around its crew, though it was the crew in reality that was inhaling sharply. It was the collective flinch to an anticipated blow. It was the false drawing of a "last breath"- only to find that there was still air to breathe.

It was also a sign to the crew that they could expect more, and expect worse.

Hands held the rails of steep ladders a little tighter- not just to offset the possibility of a more violent blow, but also to conceal the palsy of fear that was racking all to some degree.

LCDR Queffle had in his Academy days had met in part the physical education/sports requirements by taking boxing- a _gentleman-officer's_ sport.

He had never had any illusions about being anything but a man of medium stature and build at best- even in his "prime"- but Queffle had decided that he would prove something to himself and to others by entering eagerly a sport dominated by more substantial Midshipmen.

What he had proven in the final analysis was that though a technically proficient boxer, he was distinguished only in his ability to take a beating with determined resistance.

He had learned other things too though- as was the point of the Academy's insistence of many non-academic pursuits. And what had stuck most with Queffle form his boxing experience- besides an odd clicking in his jaw that was courtesy of a sneaky left hook that he had never seen coming- was something that an instructor had told him after his first of many memorable sound beatings in the ring.

 _You only know the character of your opponent, the character of the fight, and your own character after the first blows are traded._

The A.R.M.D. constellation had landed heavy body blows on the Zentraedi, and the aliens had pressed through salvo fire of nuclear destruction with as little hesitation as had they been walking into a stiff and frigid headwind.

The Zentraedi had then replied measure for measure, giving with every bit as much ferocity as had been shown by their human adversaries- and the A.R.M.D. IIs had quickly massed the "butcher's bill" a platform at a time. Only for the humans (and their indoctrinated Zentraedi allies who comprised a small but measurable percentage of the overall A.R.M.D. force) there was no immediate replenishment of losses- no relief or support had folded in immediately to close the gaps in the ranks.

The decimation effect on the defense constellation was both striking, and permanent.

In the first minutes of the war, both sides had _shown their character_ as Queffle's Academy boxing coach had alluded to.

Both had shown unreserved bravery in the face of peril.

Neither had shown lack of resolve, or had failed in any execution of duty.

The initial tallying of character showed both sides flush and square.

What chilled Queffle's blood was that while "character" was a valued commodity in battle, the Zentraedi invariably waged battles- _wars_ \- with the goal of _extermination_.

This was also demonstration of Zentraedi "character"- and in combat it was the prevailing and determining trait.

LCDR Queffle suspected that he may have been slightly more attuned to being in retreat before a force whose goal was his extermination because he was literally taking up the rear. Whether it was tradition or procedural doctrine, the station CO could not honestly remember at the moment- but he was "last man out".

Senior Master Chief O'Toole stood at the base of the ladder waiting for Queffle, looking much the way his father had when he had climbed to the top of the playground ladder as a young boy. While O'Toole was not there to catch him should he fall, Queffle found the sense of having that safety there reassuring in a remote way.

Foremost on the CO's mind as he descended through the hatch between decks was the urgency he was feeling to _leave._ Orderly and well-executed evacuation of the station was critical- but it wasn't until the shuttles were free of the station- away from the "bull's eye"- that any meaningful measure of safety was gained.

And that moment was feeling centuries away.

Still, discipline and performance of duty kept Queffle methodical in his task.

Though O'Toole and the section chiefs under him had positively accounted for every member of the station's crew and had shepherded them down through the decks toward the shuttles, Queffle still paused on the ladder with his shoulders level with the deck being evacuated and took a final look to verify that no one was being left behind. Then with a spin of a wheel, he would bring the hatch down, dog it when closed, and continue to the next deck- the _last_ deck to be traversed.

Halfway down the ladder, Archer 42 bucked violently nearly dislodging its commander from his hand and foot holds as a great shudder was felt through the decks. Unaware of any other considerations, the space platform's thrusters fired to offset the kinetic force of a solid hit and to maintain attitude.

The lights remained strong and without even a flicker, but from above and through the muffling effect of decks and sealed hatches, a low metallic groan filtered down to the ears of all and joined many human groans as well.

Queffle found himself thinking analytically, forensically- _coldly_.

The pressure hull had been penetrated somewhere and the sound was that of the interior bulkheads accepting the new stress of differential pressure. It was a stress that they were designed to withstand.

The sound was not indicative of pain, though a deep-seeded, primal part of the mind wanted to believe-.

"They got us now-."

Senior Master Chief O'Toole's words were no less coldly analytical than Queffle's thought had been- but in what they implied, they seemed indifferent to the CO.

O'Toole was correct though, and Queffle knew it.

Somewhere sensory returns indicative of a "hit" were being relayed to a gunnery officer who had probably been wading through the frustration of identifying a target through waves of ECM and the specters of projected, false sensor images.

There was no mistaking an explosion though, and in moments other guns in a battery- possibly every applicable battery of a warship would be tracked in on Archer 42.

O'Toole's assessment was coldly analytical- but both prophetic and correct.

The enemy had them now.

Queffle felt O'Toole's powerful hands pull him down from the ladder- forcefully but not violently- and press him on toward the final hatch and ladder between them and the shuttle deck as the station continued to rock underfoot with the minor adjustments of attitude thrusters.

The urgency of the situation was now visibly understood by all as the movement down through the hatch was happening quicker and with less space between bodies as they descended. All comprehended what was happening to the upper decks and instinctively all wanted to distance themselves from it.

If there was whimsical attachment to Archer 42, or a sentimental bond that might have prevented the crew from leaving the station- it was not apparent.

A third and fourth blow struck Archer 42, sledgehammer-like. Lights flickered now and the groan of metal turned into a wail that was accompanied by the rattle of spall and debris ricocheting through penetrated compartments and passageways.

Mid-step as Queffle and O'Toole moved toward the final deck hatch, the artificial gravity fluttered and both men found themselves prancing in weightlessness at the moment when their weight should have transferred from foot to foot.

Training took over in both men and they groped for the ceiling that was just out of reach- looking for any purchase and means to control their movements. According to casualty response training- _any_ purchase on a fixed object was better than floating. The theory was great, but achieving the end it professed was proving more difficult than training in a zero-G mock-up had led either to believe.

Queffle found himself making an absurd mockery of the breast-stroke by the strobe of flickering lights and was almost in a position where he thought he could reach a cluster of overhead cable trunking when the bundle was snatched away from his fingertips.

More precisely, the station bucked around him.

Queffle did not recall hearing the impact of the Zentraedi particle beam bolt, but the linear and angular world of the passageway seemed to topple and spin around him like a spectator's view inside of a catastrophe.

That was until another salvo struck.

This one Queffle actually _felt_ more than heard- as invisible hands boxed his ears, but not deafening him enough to dull out the crunch and groan of metal all around.

The sound gained physical reinforcement as the deck lurched up to meet Queffle as though inpatient at waiting to have him slam into it. The corridor quickly became the interior of a tumble-dryer with debris and struggling bodies bouncing between the bulkheads, the deck and ceiling.

Queffle rebounded from a metal surface like an overshot from the three-point line of a basket backboard and found himself in the perfect position to catch a crewman's heel across his left face and jaw. Blood, salty and warm, squirted into his mouth and found its way down the wrong channel of his throat causing him to choke with the sensation of drowning in zero-G. It was also the sensation that kept the commander from passing into unconsciousness as the white and purple bursts of color that filled his vision rapidly faded into dark.

Queffle fully expected to strike a metal surface headlong and slip into the dark completely- but instead, he felt a hand firmly catch his shirt by the collar at the back of the neck and with his returning vision the station commander found himself hauled down through the last hatch onto the shuttle deck.

On the shuttle deck, seamen clung to the trunking and piping of what was now arguably the ceiling by their legs and formed a "bailing brigade" from the shuttle deck side of the hatch back to the shuttle embarkation compartment. As a struggling shipmate would pass close enough to the deck hatch, the first man in the brigade- Seaman Mendez who Queffle recognized from the station's machine shop- would snatch him through and pass him off to the next set of waiting hands and like a bail of water pass each toward the waiting shuttles.

Queffle was vaguely aware of assurances of safety as each set of hands passed him rapidly along to the end of the brigade- a pair of petty officers who pulled the CO into the comparatively brilliant emergency lighting of the embarkation compartment.

"How many left topside, Skipper?!"

Queffle struggled with the question in his head that was still ringing from multiple blows that made him wish for the "tender days' of boxing at the Academy. Looking out into the compartment he had just been handed through, he could see Senior Master Chief O'Toole progressing in the same manner toward him.

Who was he speaking to?- Queffle struggled with the wholly irrelevant question that would not leave him. He saw and spoke to this Senior Chief every day, but his name would not come out of the hazy periphery of his mind now.

Chief Fayouzat- that was it.

"Maybe ten, Chief-.", Queffle replied, putting his hand to the throbbing of his head and pulling it away to find it slick with his own blood.

"We've gotta-."

Archer 42 was tossed as though the Hammer of God had been brought down upon it with all of His might.

A great squeal of rushing air and tearing metal boxed Queffle's ears along with a sudden and noticeable drop in pressure. The sharp pain in from within his eardrums was almost enough to make him miss the fact that the sudden flow of air was sucking him toward the hatch through which he had just been pulled by the improvised bailing brigade.

There was no purchase within reach as Queffle accelerated toward the hatch, feeling like a bullet running the length of a barrel. At an arm's length, when it was clear that he would pass through the center of the hatchway beyond the reach of any bracing point to stop himself- Queffle saw the yellow warning light above the hatch flicker to life as the emergency pressure door snapped shut.

Queffle felt the jolt all along his spine as his face worked with the sealed hatch to stop his forward motion. The heavy thudding of fists on the hatch sounded loudly and formed a savage drum rhythm as faces peered through the small viewing port back at Queffle.

At the center was Senior Master Chief O'Toole's, bright red and tight-lipped like the other faces that drifted in and out of view with their resistance to dropping atmospheric pressure.

Queffle glanced down to where the frame of the pressure hatch met the deck and saw the protrusion of the control box he was looking for. Within was the hydraulic motor that drove the piston that was holding the hatch shut.

"- _Fayouzat, open the panel and cut the goddamn hose-!"_

The senior chief opened the blade of a pocket knife (still a "standard" piece of gear for seafarers turned _starfarers_ ) and clenched the blade in his teeth as he worked at the motor box's access panel release catches with both hands.

Queffle pounded back with his fists on the hatch, yelling back through the viewing port at desperate faces,-

" _HANG ON! WE'RE ALMOST THERE!"_

"C'mon, Chief!", Queffle barked at Fayouzat, looking down to see his progress.

Queffle could see the viewing port full of faces through the corner of his left eye when another crushing blow was landed upon Archer 42.

He did not feel the impact in the sense that he had felt every other hit taken by the station since the beginning of the exchange- but rather _sensed_ the crushing, mortal blow to his command.

He also saw through the viewport the compartment beyond fill with a radiant light that dissolved and swallowed the familiar faces that had been there a moment before in the instant before the vision in his left eye darkened and the bulkhead collapsed inward at him.

Queffle felt himself punted like a football in a desperate play in the final seconds of a game, and like a football he felt himself sail through the air to be roughly intercepted by a strong set of hands.

He was no longer in the shuttle embarkation compartment aboard Archer 42- he no longer heard the dying groans and shrieks of the station with muffled hearing, nor did he hear the howl or feel the rush of escaping air.

Pressure at his shoulder , at his waist, and over his groin told him he was being secured with restraints into a seat on an escape shuttle- even though the images he was perceiving through the blurred vision of his right eye was not making sense to him yet.

A familiar voice was speaking to someone nearby with authority-.

"We're secure! Let's get _gone_ before this bucket comes apart around us!"

 **RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

Military Chief of Staff, General Breetai stood near his desk and studied the movements of Zentraedi warships as they were represented in the large holographic display over the briefing table that occupied a portion of his office.

At an instinctive level he had perceived it in the opening minutes of the attack, but observation since had confirmed his fear. The introduction of aggressor units into Earth's defensive sphere was neither rushed nor hap-hazard. There was structure and order to their movements- _thought- organization-._

This was not the maddened and reckless assault of one of Dolza's surviving warlords who had scraped together a force with promises of Honor, glory, and bloody revenge.

This was a well-planned, structured deployment of forces by _someone else._

The "who" was unimportant at the moment, Breetai knew despite the curiosity that gnawed hungrily at his intellect.

What was critical was what the "who" was doing.

Earth's first lines of defense were now almost spent.

The A.R.M.D. II constellation over the darkened hemisphere was now combat-ineffective as a force, and would be smashed completely out of existence in ten minutes at the current pace of punishment being dealt to it.

Ground-based missile silos- refitted from their original purpose of housing pre-Robotech ICBMs- now stood empty. Their contents, Pegasus Mk-4C rocket-ascent-stage missiles- having been fired at roughly the same time as the opening salvos from the A.R.M.D. II stations- but acting as a "second volley" with the time delay involved in allowing the weapons to escape the atmosphere.

Waves of these missiles regardless of their source had met the Zentraedi advance head-on, while the Moon bases had attacked from within their ranks- and all with a stunning but ultimately futile effect.

For every Zentraedi ship badly damaged or destroyed by a Pegasus missile in the interplanetary space between Earth and Moon, ten de-folded beyond lunar orbit to take its place like the Hydra replacing its severed head.

The Zentraedi had thrown themselves onto the Earth's defenses to sap them, and had while still making steady progress toward the objective itself.

Ground-based gun batteries were now engaged, but as fixed positions were averaging only two to three minutes of operation before being targeted by the Zentraedi vanguard and being reduced to ineffectiveness by counter-fire.

Strangely though, and quite contrary to standard Zentraedi planetary assault doctrine- only active military ground positions were receiving orbital fire- _primarily._

If it was peculiar to Breetai that entire regions of the planet were not being saturated with energy weapons' fire to raze them or prepare them for landing operations- it was dumbfounding that particular ground targets that normally would have garnered little Zentraedi interest _were_ being engaged.

Ground-based tracking stations, communications centers, and even civilian power grids were receiving restrained punishment enough to render them useless.

Breetai could only feel muted relief for the civilian population as it seemed that instant obliteration was being traded for a purpose that only the enemy knew at this moment.

This was somehow more disquieting.

These questions were academic at this moment, of course.

More pressing matters had to be attended to.

"General, sir- The President is on the line now.", Colonel Kalehahea, the MCS Administrative Officer said.

The Polynesian officer had his attention drawn in two directions that only in these circumstances could have both been in step with one another. As was his primary function, he still saw to all of the support required for the Military Chief of Staff to perform his duties. At the same time, he was now overseeing the systematic destruction of all of the systems and files in the MCS's office suite required to support those functions.

It was a necessary paradox though, as Breetai had made it clear that his flag would not be remaining at the Headquarters facility long.

"Thank you, Pate´.", Breetai said, reaching over to the phone built into his desk to activate the speaker, "Mr. President, are you hearing me clearly?"

President Valterven replied with his distinctive Swiss accent providing some concealment to the leader's understandable level of anxiety.

"Yes, I am hearing you clearly General-. My Military Advisor tells me that we have not deployed the Fleet to meet the attack-. Explain this."

Breetai replied, confident in his decision, 'Mr. President, to borrow a quote from Earth's own history, if we were to fight now we would only prove our ability to die gallantly. The Fleet, as it stands now, could offer a respectable resistance for a short period of time against the Zentraedi force we are tracking- but victory or prolonged resistance in any meaningful sense is highly unlikely."

"We have confirmed that they re Zentraedi then, and not Robotech Masters or Invid?"

"Yes, Mr. President.", Breetai replied, "We are have positively identified and are tracking just under sixteen hundred Zentraedi vessels inside of Lunar orbit, executing a planetary approach to Earth. We are tracking smaller hostile task forces that are in the process of assaulting from orbit our instillations on the Moon and on Mars. Their pattern of attack and mode of execution strongly suggests a high level of planning. –And Mr. President, they are communicating by the same triple-encryption code you were briefed on. It appears that the threat was more extensive than anyone could have reasonably predicted."

Valterven interjected bluntly, "I understood that the rogue Zentraedi forces had no strong cohesion or organization, General-."

Breetai's response was equally frank, "They do not, Mr. President. We are therefore being attacked by a Zentraedi force whose command was not fragmented by the destruction of Dolza's Imperial Fleet. Their exact identity is of lesser importance right now than what they are accomplishing, Mr. President."

"And that is?"

Breetai surveyed the tactical projection and found that the snare was continuing to close as he expected- progressing as he would have ordered if he had been in the position of the anonymous commander.

"Mr. President, let me state up front that I believe that the purpose of the attack we are under is the landing of an invasion army and _not_ the outright extermination of the Earth's population.", Breetai said with calm, even tone at a measured pace that was urgent but at the same time composed. It was the balance that acknowledged peril without suggesting or provoking panic, and it was a demonstration of the characteristics that had led to Breetai's appointment to and unquestioned retention in his position of Military Chief of Staff.

"We are looking at a spearhead, or vanguard force right now conducting a sweep-and-clear operation on a massive scale- preparing the battlespace for the larger force that has not yet materialized."

Valterven's voice was steadier now in the minor indicators that had shown apprehension to the observant moments before. His questions came pointedly though- blunt inquiry was as much a part of his responsibilities as dispassionate analysis and action was a part of Breetai's.

"How can you be certain of this?"

Breetai grimaced with the dark irony of the moment- the situations that demanded the _most_ certainty rarely allowed for it.

" _Nothing_ in war is certain, Mr. President- however I am confident in my assessment. I recognize the methodology of this attack. It is refined- more carefully planned in the details of its objectives than one might expect from Zentraedi- perhaps- but I recognize the general structure. The enemy has nearly exsanguinated our planetary defenses- _paving the road_ , I believe is the term. When substantial resistance has been quelled, the landing force will materialize and begin that phase of the operation."

"The Earth _has_ been targeted directly though, General-.", Valterven observed in protest.

"Yes.", Breetai agreed readily, "Though in a very limited, _restrained_ execution. Military posts, defensive installations, tracking stations, some critical infrastructure. This is _not_ the attack staged by Dolza's force. This is to soften us enough to allow for the landing of forces. They do not want to destroy us outright-. Either they are looking for something, or their objective is occupation of the Earth itself."

The President's tone showed no signs of elevation by Breetai's surmise. "General Breetai, I'm sure that you can empathize in that subjugation is only marginally preferable to extermination."

Breetai countered quickly, " _Marginally_ preferable is _still_ preferable, Mr. President. War is bearing the unbearable. –But we still have options. And depending upon the core objectives of our enemy, we may have very favorable options."

Options and the implications of deciding on an option and its course of action was familiar to Valterven- this was the sphere in which he thrived. In this moment, it was also a grappling point he could use to actively engage in and affect the developing situation.

"General Breetai, you said that this pattern of attack by the Zentraedi might indicate that their objective is not the Earth itself- but possibly something on it. You meant of course the wreckage of _SDF-1_?"

Breetai affirmed the President's suspicion immediately, "That is correct, sir. The last contact any organized Zentraedi force had with Zor's Battle Fortress and was able to report back to The Robotech Masters was Dolza's final engagement. Based on no credible, subsequent intelligence and the catastrophic defeat of Dolza's force in the context of the Fortress's supposed capabilities- it is reasonable to speculate that an organized Zentraedi force _could be_ attempting to complete my original assignment."

"That is a high stake wager on questionable odds, General Breetai.", Valterven said with clear reservation.

"And entirely irrelevant, Mr. President- for the moment.", Breetai agreed in part.

"What are you suggesting, General Breetai?", Valterven asked, driving to the point of the matter and the only issue worthy of discussion at the moment.

"Mr. President", Breetai said, speaking plainly as he could think of no way to soften the central point of his assessment- and finding no potential benefit in attempting to, "-We have already lost this battle. Our best- our _only_ viable course of action to ensure the continuation of this civilization is to withdraw from this fight, to gather the required intelligence on our enemy for meaningful analysis, and to plan a response making best use of the assets we still have at our disposal. That begins with and depends heavily upon maintaining a functional Government and a viable war production complex."

Valterven's tone became leaden in spirit, but accepting.

"I fear that I know what you are about to recommend, General Breetai."

Breetai replied solemnly but firmly, "It gives me no pleasure, Mr. President- however my best recommendation- the only recommendation I can make with any degree of confidence in the eventual, acceptable outcome is the immediate and full implementation of the Exodus Contingency."

Valterven was silent for a moment- an interminable moment it seemed to Breetai. Long enough for the Military Chief of Staff to fear that the President might be contemplating another decision.

Valterven replied though with equal parts resolve and resignation, "General Breetai, Earth may very well curse our names for all eternity for this-."

Breetai was unaffected, "If Fate is kind, there will be an Earth to curse us that long."

"Order Exodus.", Valterven said as plainly as asking for cream in his tea, "We will reconvene aboard the GS-95 when the proper Government and military entities have assembled."

"Yes, Mr. President.", Breetai replied, now having orders to carry out, "Your Guard should have you and your family in transit in minutes."

"Breetai-."

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"I know that Exodus is a highly conditional plan-. With the Zentraedi attack advancing at the pace it is- do you feel we have a chance of clean execution?"

Breetai forced what he knew to be the "best case" scenario given the situation, "The window of opportunity is closing, Mr. President- but we are well within the threshold. I will see you aboard the GS-95, sir."

"Then God be with you until then General-. And then with all of us."

"And Fate with you, Mr. President."

The secure line on which the President and MCS had been speaking closed with a heavy, nearly mechanical click like the punctuation mark of an irreversible decision.

"Pate´-.", Breetai said as the tactical display continued to show the systematic progression toward the inevitable, "You heard the President's order. Execute the Exodus Contingency."

"Yes, General."

 **Mars**

Some missions contributed to achieving a specific tactical or strategic objective of a campaign.

Others _supported_ tactical or strategic gains- garnering muted glory from the arguable point that they _prevented_ interference with or disruption of an operation's core and critical activities.

The 1797th _Chal-Noth_ Shock Division was engaged in the latter.

Action Commander Nikhur, his officers, sub-officers and warriors knew that this was the mission that Fate and Command had elected to assign them, and dutifully they had trained relentlessly to know their objective for the purpose of neutralizing it.

The division, which with the growth of the 7th Grand Army had suddenly taken on a 30% composition of norghil had deployed to a distant world- thousands of light-years away- for the purpose of exercise. Similar gravitational, atmospheric, and geographic characteristics between that world and his- even to the point of a comparable mountain to stage assaults against- had made it ideal for the purpose.

Still- despite the constant occupations and exhaustions of training, there was a lingering sense of exile felt by the 1797th- and felt more acutely by none than by Action Commander Nikhur.

Nikhur was a competent officer and an acceptable leader of warriors in combat.

His rate of successes, casualty figures, and overall performance in previous campaigns all fell within the average.

This was neither excellent nor disgraceful.

What Nikhur had come to realize though was that to neither excel nor to be disgraced was to not be _distinguishable._

What Nikhur had also come to realize was that to not be distinguishable was to become an assumed factor or variable in the eyes of Command- like the percentage of operationally capable Regults in a unit, or the effective rate at which a ship's air purification system could recycle a given volume of air.

Mediocrity was to be a known and constant value in an operational equation- and not a critical variable.

It could be argued that this assignment was a result of being labeled as such.

Nikhur had come to the belief early on in his own life that a leader- any warrior, really- was made by two factors: his own skills and aptitudes, and the opportunity to demonstrate them.

Nikhur was certain of the first factor in himself, but the second had always seemed to elude him like an agile enemy force resisting engagement.

It was a factor- an element- in his composition that that would have to come to reckoning before he could reach and be recognized for his potential.

Inglorious as this assignment was on the fourth world of an alien star system, this was the best opportunity Nikhur had been given in some time to earn consideration for the next prestigious assignment.

Certainly this was a possibility Nikhur recognized- especially given the level of resistance that had already been shown by the aliens.

Preliminary reconnaissance had identified the presence of the alien outpost on this fourth world early in the planning stages of Supreme General Krymina's campaign. A muted signature of Reflex energy detected almost by accident in a place where no such trace of Robotechnology had any right to be.

Cautious and closer investigation had revealed that there was indeed an alien presence that had imbedded itself into the solid rock of the planet's largest mountain- an engineering endeavor that both provided concealment from all but targeted surveillance and shelter from direct orbital fire.

It had also posed possibilities that could not be fully brought to determination until the moment of action arrived.

Indications were that this outpost was the solitary operational one on the fourth planet- the evidence of an earlier outpost that had been destroyed during Khyron's participation in Breetai's original campaign to seize Zor's ship being a crater that still crackled with the bio-ethereal energy of a Reflex furnace intentionally over-run to the point of detonation. But it was an alien outpost, and being of undetermined purpose had to be considered a threat- even if a remote one.

Indeed, the existence of the outpost here was the only factor that gave any value ot an otherwise strategically insignificant body of inhospitable rock orbiting an unremarkable star.

The fourth world was too far from the third to provide any reasonable position for defensive operations of the alien homeworld. It's orbital path and relative positioning to the third, inhabited world even made it of minimal value as a tracking or early warning station monitoring the great reaches of space for threats. Even its value as a staging area for military operations was offset distance from the third planet and the logistical difficulties that was presented.

Still- there was an outpost here.

It was an outpost of undetermined purpose, and in that uncertain designation of purpose, it was a threat.

Threats- even those whose significance were suspected to be minimal could not be afforded indifference when the resources to neutralize them were at hand and in abundance.

So the fate of this outpost had been decided from the moment of its discovery for no other reason than its being, and with so low a level of urgency that its successful neutralization was not even counted amongst the dependencies on which the advance of the greater campaign plan hinged.

It was under these conditions that Nikhur had and his shock division had been assigned.

As Fate would have it though, even in a seemingly trivial assignment on the very fringe of the campaign's opening operational area- there was the potential for something of greater significance to be achieved.

Though Krymina's intelligence staff and operational planners had not been able to attach a significance to this outpost, the aliens clearly assigned some importance to the installation as it had been defended fiercely from the first moments of the assault task force's de-folding and approach.

Ground-based missile and gun batteries, lethal even by Zentraedi standards, had inflicted heavy losses on the landing and picket ships before they had even come within striking range to sortie their transports to land the assault forces. This was why there was only the 1797th assaulting this approach to the alien outpost, and not _two_ divisions.

Four landing ships and seven destroyers in all had been lost before the formerly undetected missile batteries on both of the fourth planet's two moons had been knocked out of action.

The surviving landing ships of the assault task force had reset their orbit to a higher latitude to escape direct fire from gun and missile emplacements on the fourth planet itself as they underwent the vulnerable process of deploying their landing forces.

The remaining destroyers of the squadron assigned to escort the task force, eight in total, meanwhile were forced to absorb the brunt of what the alien defenses had left to offer while "preparing" the target site with orbital fire.

Nikhur and his warriors had been aware in a real sense of where the alien installation was from the dropping of the Re-Entry Transport gangway ramps.

The zip of particle beam fire from supporting destroyers pierced the modeled red sky from seemingly random points. The momentary streak of each radiant blue bolt terminated with an associated flash below the horizon formed by jagged and irregular ridgelines that blocked the assault force's line of sight on the target. The thin atmosphere and the heavy trudge of hundreds of mecha conspired to drown out any sount that might have carried from the focal point of the ongoing devastation, but Nikhur was certain that even through the rumble of his division on the move and the sound insulation of his Glaug Officer's Pod he could hear evidence of the punishment that the alien outpost was being subjected to.

Or perhaps it was just a projection of his mind based on past experience.

The 1797th's advance across broken and irregular terrain had been rapid and uncontested since the moment of de-embarkation from the transport pods. Navigational computers pre-programmed with the critical positions and waypoints of the assault operation kept units in proper step to set the pace that would put the division's leading elements into striking distance of the objective simultaneously- but this artificial guidance was unnecessary. A great, dark mass of dust had since boiled up into the thin air, marring the uniform red hue of the sky. The orbital gun barrage continued all the while seeming to lance the beast of its making.

Reaching the peak of a ridge, Action Commander Nikhur paused to survey the objective with the perspective of distance while that was an option to him. The great mountain already filled the horizon before him and its steep slope glowed in dots and clusters like a dense starfield through the thinner patches of dust rising from the impact of particle beam gunfire.

Nikhur felt a sense of relief when through the same cloud he briefly glimpsed a hemisphere of soft green light standing out from the same slope- an energy shield, without question. The alien outpost remained despite the savagery inflicted by the destroyers far above.

The veteran of many an Invid Hive's destruction, Nikhur reveled in this clear indication that the aliens were enduring in this fashion. Because they were cowering behind their shield, this meant that they were already in defensive mode and probably bracing for the siege that they rightfully suspected to be coming. Also, as a veteran of such sieges on Invid Hives, Nikhur realized that by assuming the defensive posture the aliens were only elongating the timeline of their defeat and not altering the outcome.

Executed correctly, Nikhur recognized that the taking of this fortification and its destruction was an ideal opportunity to demonstrate the skill required for recognition from the higher echelons of Command- and the likely path to the choice assignments it would bring.

"Lord-.", Commander Lund, Nikhur's executive officer, said from his Nacht-Rau combat suit just below and behind the rise his superior's Glaug and the Regult Scout that stood with him surveyed what was to be the battlefield.

"The division has reached the assault phase line and is awaiting your order to advance. I would suggest deploying probing elements however-. I find the lack of alien ground forces guarding or even monitoring the approaches disturbing to the point of warranting heightened caution."

Action Commander Nikhur was as aware of the apparent absence of alien ground forces as his executive officer. His Glaug, though less versatile in almost all modes of combat than the Nacht-Rau combat suit, did provide a superior platform for command and control of forces. With its multiple displays versus the combat suit's one, the Glaug allowed its officer pilot to better perform his duty monitoring and directing a battle whereas the Nacht-Rau combat suit enticed the more impulsive to engage in it.

Nikhur had been aware of the enemy's lack of deployment before his Glaug had even dirtied its articulated feet in the red soil of this world. Sensor downlinks from the supporting destroyers and landing ships had shown Nikhur and his fellow commanders the enemy's lax defensive posture while they had still been in transit to the world's surface.

During the opening minutes of the assault, Nikhur had understood and expected this lack of movement as being the natural lull that was created in the space between the initiation of a surprise attack and the defender's ability to react. Then, as ground-based missile and gun fire had begun to reply to the orbital barrage from Zentraedi warships- Nikhur had interpreted the failure of enemy ground forces to appear to be a sensible decision by the alien commander to reserve his forces for when they would be needed. Certainly even the most junior commander had to recognize that to deploy forces under heavy orbital bombardment was to squander fighting forces that would be needed later.

-But now…

Now the enemy commander's actions were puzzling to Nikhur.

There was no way that he could not know that a sizable force had landed in proximity to his position. The alien commander also could not reasonably expect the energy barrier he cowered behind to last forever- it was already showing clear signs of weakening.

To not deploy at this point- to not meet Nikhur and his forces in the field or the defensible approaches to his outpost, the alien commander was essentially inviting the inevitable battle to take place at his front gate.

That was, of course, unless the alien commander was aware of a variable that Nikhur, the other Te'Dak Tohl commanders, and their forces were not.

That was of course unless the alien commander _wanted_ the Te'Dak Tohl to charge recklessly forward.

This was what was giving Nikhur's executive officer pause, and raising similar suspicions in the action commander as well.

Had the 1797th landed with the full weight of the allocated ground force- had it landed with all of its _own_ numbers- then like an epic clash between norghil and Invid, perhaps battering head-on through alien resistance would have been feasible.

The alien ground-based fire against landing ship and transport had been far more robust and effective than had been anticipated though, and conservation of forces was a legitimate concern now.

"Detach probe units.", Nikhur said, sounding more frustrated to himself than he expected, "I want our main avenues of attack swept quickly, but thoroughly right up to the enemy's energy perimeter. Any defenses he may have outside of his energy shield may not be deep- but I expect he would have designed them to slow our advance and pile up our numbers within range of direct fire."

"Like Invid-.", Lund observed having experienced himself the very tactic Nikhur was predicting from the Zentraedi's original adversary.

"Like Invid-.", Nikhur agreed, "Though we should expect a longer reach from missiles and gradually increasing resistance as-."

Far left of Nikhur's position, the sky above the 1797th's flanking units seemed to dim comparatively as though the ambient light had been sucked into a single point- an immensely brilliant orb of light that surpassed a thousand times over the meager light from a distant sun.

Nikhur only had a split second with which to comprehend what had happened to his left flank- what was happening to his _division_ \- before it happened to him as well and his existence ended with a last sensation of searing heat.

The _Mobile Assault Cannon_ , more commonly known as the M.A.C. II "Monster" had, as the largest of the Generation 1 Destroids been accused of many things since their conception.

It had been accused of being a dinosaur in an age of progressively smaller and more agile mecha at 26 meters in height, with thick armor, and with a gross weight of just under two hundred metric tons. The Monster's top speed of 32 Kmph, and the thunderous noise raised by its massive bi-pedal feet when moving at that speed seemed to support justification of the description.

It had been accused of being too over-engineered and cumbersome to participate in the "fire and maneuver" tactics that were solidifying as operational doctrine- unable to even keep pace with its smaller siblings of the same generation to even allow the M.A.C. IIs to even be incorporated into composite units.

What the M.A.C. II Monster had _never_ been accused of with its main battery of four 16-inch/50 caliber magnetic rail rifles- gun tubes like which had not been seen since battleships had roamed the Earth's oceans supreme- was not making an impression on the enemy.

The M.A.C. II had seen few opportunities to _impress_ the enemy during The Robotech War, and only slightly more during the post-apocalyptic years that had followed and the question had rightly been asked as to whether the Monster dominated a niche that time and advances in warfare had already passed by.

Who was to be the next enemy, and would the M.A.C. II's attributes be of any value?

The answer had come.

Major Inid Castaigne, "Dragon" Company, 73rd Battalion, 18th Heavy Mecha Armor Regiment had arrived with her unit at Schiaparelli eight months before on an eighteen month rotation with two guiding precepts.

The first was that she and her company were not on Mars to benefit from the post-tour advantages of volunteering for "The Big Red"- often movement to the top of the list for more choice assignments and billets. Dragon Company for every day of its eighteen months was there with the expectation that they would _fight_.

The second was that if Dragon Company was to fight, it would fight in a manner reflective of the company's name and that it would be a fight that the enemy would not be eager to experience a second time.

Mars was not a human being's natural environment, but it was now human by the species' determination to claim it. A battle had already been fought by which humans had defended that claim, and if The Battle of Sera Base fought years ago now had taught anything it was that a small force properly trained, equipped, and motivated could hold off a larger one.

Major Castaigne was an avid student of this lesson and a staunch believer that given certain conditions Schiaparelli Base could be defended for extensive periods against a heavily disproportionate force. She also believed that the M.A.C. II could contribute to that defense.

On Earth, the rail-accelerated 16 inch rifles could hurl a projectile weighing over a thousand kilograms 51 to 53 kilometers with remarkable accuracy. On Mars, with an atmosphere of one-tenth density to Earth, and 40% Earth's gravity- the rifles could throw the same projectile 84 kilometers and drop every shot of a salvo into a 75-meter ring.

Of course, accuracy of that kind at that range was scarcely required when firing projectiles with a 5-kiloton tactical nuclear warhead- as two M.A.C.s, of Dragon Company just had.

-But it was comforting to know that the capability was there.

" _Comme il est beau, c'est terrible_ …", Castaigne muttered, reverting in a moment of awe to the tongue of her native, southern France.

" _Holy shit…"_ , was the somewhat e less eloquent reaction from Castaigne's gunner, Lowe, as he too peered through his viewer at the twin pillars of thick dust that were still ascending and had not yet collapsed to create the caps of mushroom clouds in the low Martian gravity.

" _Nothin'_ lived through that, Major."

Lowe was correct, Castaigne knew.

Even with Mars's thinner atmosphere, nothing could survive two nuclear air bursts so proximal as the salvo her Monster had thrown downrange.

The elation of the moment was brief for Castaigne as her mecha's radar returned a mixed tactical image of wrecked metal mass, inert hostile mecha- presumably out of action but still recognizable to the sensor systems as mecha, and a small handful of Zentraedi mecha in retreat.

Castaigne's euphoria was doused by suspicion brought on by experience and common sense. The number of transport pods that had made planetfall had a capacity far greater than the number of mecha that the major could account for. Zentraedi were many things, but foolish in the ways of warfare was not one of them.

It was unlikely that the force that Schiaparelli's ground-based radar and Dragon Company's was seeing the entire picture. The satellite constellation was gone, having been destroyed by the landing force on its approach, and the seismic monitors scattered about Olympus Mons on the logical approaches to Schiaparelli were useless because of the heavy orbital bombardment.

Castaigne, pleased as she was by what she saw was more concerned by what she did not. She could not provide defense against what she could not train her guns on- and there were almost certainly more targets to be had.

The heavy frame the M.A.C. II swayed (Monsters never "shook" unless directly struck) as several diminished particle beam bolts from the orbital assault penetrated the double-density barrier field put up by Schiaparelli and cratered lifeless Martian soil.

The disturbing fact was that the rounds had penetrated meaning the barrier system was beginning to weaken.

"Dragon One Actual to Phoebe-.", Castaigne said via coded communications channel to the Schiaparelli Operations Center, "I have negative enemy contact. Request UCAV recon support and instructions Over."

Captain Abe Agena, REF, believed vehemently that there were _always_ options even in the direst moments of command.

Having lived through many of these moments, he knew with equal certainty that sometimes all of the options were _unfavorable._

This was revealing itself to be one of those moments.

The nuclear incineration of a landed Zentraedi force had raised spirits and a cheer throughout the Schiaparelli OC for a little over a minute before the heavy reality facing the outpost descended upon them again.

The Zentraedi owned the "high ground" of space, and from there could provide air dominance with fighters from their ships' fighter wings against the technologically superior, but vastly outnumbered Alpha and Beta Veritech squadrons of Schiaparelli's fighter wing. The warships, making their criss-crossing bombardment runs across the sky could also dominate the battlefield beyond the base's barrier perimeter with the same gun fire being used now to pulverize the force field itself.

And without a doubt, Agena was certain that additional Zentraedi ground units lurked somewhere over the horizon- waiting.

Agena had a formidable Destroid detachment available, but dared not send it out from under the protective umbrella of Schiaparelli's barrier. They- not even the near-indestructible M.A.C. IIs- would not survive long under the orbital barrage- and not in great enough numbers to provide more than a symbolic resistance to a Zentraedi force of any size.

Schiaparelli's fighter wing _might_ offset the Zentraedi ground forces temporarily- but it would be a one-way trip for any pilot leaving the cover of the base's defenses. The barrier could not be lowered to recover fighters- and once their ordinance was spent, they would be totally at the mercy of the enemy.

A fighter scramble was still an option, but it would be one of last resort.

Like a caste of medieval times, Schiaparelli Base was under siege and despite the infinite technological advances that set the Mars outpost apart from a fortification of stone and wood, the basic scenario of siege was the same.

Schiaparelli required outside assistance to break the grip held by the enemy upon it.

Outside assistance was not likely to be coming any time soon.

Lieutenant Colonel Manuel looked grimly through the OC's central holographic display that was now fully in tactical display mode with all functional layers engaged and displaying an overwhelming diversity of information.

Among the combat actions it was tracking was the latest volley of Mk-9 Ballista ASMs fired from Schiaparelli's rotary fed, hardened launcher emplacements recessed skillfully into the rock of Olympus Mons much as the base was itself.

With less range and fewer homing and guidance refinements than its larger cousin the Mk-4 Pegasus, the Ballista was still a lethal anti-warship weapon with the ability to severely damage with a conventional Protex warhead- and to kill with a 2 kiloton nuclear option.

The weapon was lethal of course only when it could be employed properly- and the Zentraedi after the loss of a pair of destroyers to mixed Ballista and ground-based anti-warship gun fire had discovered how to offset the weapon's use.

Agena followed the track of the Ballistas through the direction of Manuel's eyes as he watched the weapons reach low orbit, exhaust their primary ascent stage, and then fire their sub-light engines to vanish harmless to the enemy into the void.

The Zentraedi had discovered that in making high-speed, low orbit passes they could enter effective firing range on Schiaparelli- a fixed target- perform what was for all intents and purposes a "strafing run" with heavy particle beam batteries, and escape below the sensor horizon of the REF outpost before the Ballistas could rise to acquire or meet them.

Schiaparelli's battery captains had tried launching the weapons into the anticipated path of warships as soon as they had been detected, as well as firing wide spreads of the weapons to compensate for errors in anticipating the target's flight path. Neither tactic had been successful with the marauding warship either simply steering around the rising fusillade of missiles, or aborting their runs with a radical directional change in low orbit.

In either case, the target vessel was well outside of the search "cone" of the Ballista's seeker head when it activated.

The Mk-9 had never been intended as a comprehensive anti-warship defense system- especially not in a ground-based configuration. Its ground-based configuration was intended to be only part of a multi-layered defensive strategy.

That system was being dismantled a piece at a time around the ears of the garrison of Schiaparelli.

"We can at least deter them from straight attack runs-.", Manuel offered Agena weakly, "-Force them to fire on different angles and absorb the damage in different areas of the barrier system."

Agena nodded with false approval of the assessment, "It may be the best we can do until we receive Fleet support-. Communications, have we had any success raising REF Operations on any frequency?"

"Negative, Captain- the entire subspace band is being heavily jammed. The automated emergency beacons on Phobos and Demos _may_ be getting through if the concentration of warships is holding Mars orbit, but there's no way to be sure."

"Well _find_ a way to be sure, Coms-. I don't want to rely on the chance that someone in the Ops Center on Earth just happens to notice that we're not transmitting anymore to indicate we're in distress here."

"Aye, sir.", replied the communication officer now confronted with a near-impossible tasking.

"Command, Recon-.", came an urgent call to attention from the Flight Ops Station in the base's OC.

A small team of specialists whose duties most often were to supplement the capabilities of either the Sensor Ops or the Air Ops teams, Reconnaissance operated the variety of UAVs, UCAVs, and UGVs supplied to Schiaparelli.

This was no normal day however, and since the loss of the Martian surveillance satellite constellation, Reconnaissance Ops had become the eyes of Schiaparelli.

"-We have enemy ground forces observed, positioned one-two-five kliks west."

"I thought we'd lost contact and control of our Cosmic Hawks?..", LTC Manuel said, his tone accusatory as though his subordinates were responsible for the content of the report that they were delivering.

"We lost _direct_ control, sir-.", the Reconnaissance Ops lead replied, "The UAVs are programmed to autonomously fly a search pattern in a pre-determined square for a set time before returning to base in the event that ground control is severed. We've been getting bits of their video and sensor streams through some of the thinner jamming-."

"Let's see it-.", Agena said turning his focus to one of the holographic displays visible to the entire Ops Center.

The screen flickered, coinciding with a tremor that ran through the base from a direct and partially penetrating particle beam strike to the barrier system and the rock face of Olympus Mons.

The holographic screen flickered with a number of secondary systems in the Ops Center, partially dissolved, reformed, and in a grainy, degraded image whose integrity was heavily supplemented by computer augmentation showed the irregular Martian foothill terrain- and the distinct forms of Zentraedi Regult Battle Pods in distinct staging formations.

"They don't seem to be in any hurry to advance.", Manuel said, trying to sound hopeful, "Maybe they've learned the lesson our M.A.C.s taught the last assault group-."

Agena acknowledged what every face his eyes crossed was already saying silently, "They have- and they've no need to advance. They'll let the cruisers soften us up a little more before moving in to mop up."

Manuel now wore the expression of a man on the losing end of a battle who was looking for the most acceptable way to lose.

"Captain, they've learned about long-range artillery- but it might be time for a lesson in _cruise missiles_ -."

A slight, barely visible smile turned up the corners of Agena's mouth, "Warm up the launchers. I'm of the mind of going out myself in an environment suit and throwing rocks before we let them set a single food onto this post-."

The OC shook noticeably as a salvo of particle beam bolts penetrated Schiaparelli's defense barrier to further pit the face of Olympus Mons.

Combat conditions in Schiaparelli Base's Engineering Control Center were not that dissimilar from standard operations. Though in the adjoining compartments that housed the base's primary and redundant Reflex furnaces there was a larger number of technicians and DC personnel to be found to address any systemic machinery problems that might arise- but the ECC required and in fact had no additional staff manning its various posts.

Computers hummed the same whir of power flow and cooling fan and blew their faintly ozone-smelling breath out into the carefully climate controlled room.

Specialists monitored the same power generation and conversion functions while others monitored base-wide power flow, distribution, and consumption.

Extra care was given to monitoring the power supply to Schiaparelli's weapons and defense systems that normally were only in a "stand-by" mode. Now, fully employed, the monitoring effort was the same but the criticality higher and the operating parameters being monitored were that of a set of systems being put under active operational stress.

And there was the tension too.

There was the tension felt by all that numbers and graphic indicators being monitored had ramifications beyond the possibility of power loss or brown-outs about the base. Life was immediately linked to the flawless continuity of the services they maintained and monitored.

Lieutenant Commander Kevin Kroft was feeling that pressure increasingly and acutely with every dip and spike of power flow and with the diminishing effectiveness of the base's barrier system.

The thought of being buried deep in the ancient Martian rock of Olympus Mons had in times past provided Kroft with a cushion of solace when those terrifying "what if" moments struck him in the dead of night and he obeyed the compulsion to check his children sleeping in their bunk beds to assure himself that they were safe. Now, with the tremors being felt even so far into the mountain from the orbital pounding being received by the base- he was not so certain that the solace he had felt wasn't just false comfort..

Naked rock was an excellent layer of defense from an orbital attack by energy weapons, true- but it also had the ability to be chipped away at gradually- steadily- and was prone to collapse if the Corps of Engineers study was not flawless in its assessment made years before of the stability of the site into which Schiaparelli had been built.

A powerful vibration that set an empty coffee cup left on a work station to rattling coincided with a noticeable dip in the graphic that displayed barrier field density on one of the many ECC monitors.

"Grid Three field density down to fifty-eight percent-.", reported the specialist at the station, "Field matrix integrity down to sixty-one percent."

Commander Schlosser, Schiaparelli's Chief Engineer and well-versed if not expert in all of the mechanical and systemic processes that provided or protected life on Schiaparelli was prompted by these readings into action.

Anyone who had read the operations manuals on the DB-2 series of cold plasma barrier systems was aware that at a certain level of plasma field integrity and density, the shield became for all practical purposes useless, and in some extreme cases of system stress could become potentially dangerous with the possibility of overload.

The Schiaparelli barrier was approaching that threshold.

"We could cycle the field generators for each grid, one at a time and extend the other grids to compensate while the plasma field re-integrates.", Schlosser suggested to LCDR Russ whose area of responsibility was the base's defensive systems.

Russ considered her superior's suggestion- that in fact did not have to come to her as a _suggestion,_ and replied, "It may restore some integrity to each grid, Commander, but cycling one grid at a time may cause problems when we try to sync the entire plasma field back into harmony- especially if it is taking heavy fire. We could open ourselves to a catastrophic overload."

Schlosser glanced at the digital clock on the ECC wall, "We've been averaging seven minutes between heavy bombardments. Recycling a grid at a time takes about five, maybe slightly more- that's not a terribly narrow margin of error, and a hell of a lot less chancy than letting the Zentraedi pound the barrier down to nothing."

"That it is-. Just pointing out the risk.", Russ said, agreeing with the suggestion without overtly agreeing.

It _was_ the best option.

Schlosser picked up the duty phone to buzz the OC.

The pick-up on the command end was instantaneous.

All in the ECC followed the half of the conversation they could hear between Schlosser and his superior, the base commander.

"-Yes sir, we're aware of that and have an option that could stretch the life of the barrier if successful-."

Schlosser's face tightened with a reply from Captain Agena that only he was privileged to.

"I recommend a staggered cycling of the barrier system, sir."

Schlosser made a series of small nods through the response from the OC.

"-Yes sir, that is a risk- but the barrier will hardly be effective much longer as it stands-."

The ECC tensed, sensing the impending decision and poising to act.

"Yes, sir-. We just need to coordinate to execute at the moment of lightest enemy activity-. – _Now?.._ Understood, sir-!"

Schlosser motioned to Russ, the phone still to his head, and snapped his fingers while mouthing the word, " _Go_."

"-Yes sir", Schlosser said into the phone, "-the moment cycling is complete-."

LCDR Russ and the technicians in her charge were already a controlled frenzy of activity with fingers flying over console keyboards to override set safety protocols and restart the processes that required restarting.

Kevin Kroft forced himself to return his attention to his area of responsibility, the strong and steady flow of power from Schiaparelli's Reflex furnaces to its critical systems. Russ and her team would oversee their element, but were relying on Kroft's team to see to theirs.

For a moment Kevin's mind then turned to Amanda.

Undoubtedly she was actively involved- either preparing for or engaged in action in her role as a pilot. As he thought of her, Kevin also hoped that he, Martin, and Meagan were the farthest thing from her mind. As a pilot, she required her focus to be wholly on the fight.

Or; if she was thinking of them the way that Kevin was thinking of her- he hoped that she could delude herself into imagining them safe within the defenses of Schiaparelli Base.

From where he stood though, Kevin Kroft had his doubts.

"You're going outside the lines…", Martin Kroft warned his younger sister, Meagan.

Martin preferred to draw things on his own and then color them, but when his father had waken he and his sister to go three doors down the hall to Mrs. Feinstein's apartment to stay with her- he had not thought he would need to pack any drawing paper.

Every now and then, he and Meagan had to stay the night, or part of the night at Mrs. Feinstein's because Dad's work would call and he did not want to leave them alone. So, they would pick up what Dad called their "GO" bags, move down the hall to get a cup of hot cocoa (Mrs. Feinstein made the _best_ hot cocoa) and they would spend the night on the couch- which was fine except sleeping toe to toe, Meagan always kicked in her sleep and would wake him up.

Tonight was different though.

 _Mrs. Feinstein_ had given them their hot cocoa, had put them to bed on her couch as she had always done- but had waken them and told them that they had to go to the shelter the way that they practiced in school.

The hallway leading to the closest shelter was crowded with people who were _not_ happy with being waken-up by the alarm and the flashing lights that continued to go off a lot longer than they ever had during emergency drill at school.

Some were even crying- but Martin knew exactly what to do because he was a junior monitor for his class, and knew where to go.

The shelter had filled quickly, and when the shelter monitor had made sure that everyone who was supposed to be there was there, she closed the heavy door. Martin had helped with this in other drills, but Mrs. Feinstein wouldn't let him this time, and the shelter monitor did not ask.

This was okay though, because Marin saw six other kids from his class and two from Meagan's with either a parent or a sitter like Mrs. Feinstein. Tonight though, the adults were keeping them close where in other drills they were allowed to play. It must have been because of the late hour that they kept their children to themselves, and maybe also why they looked so upset.

It didn't matter to Martin.

Meagan had brought a coloring book of Disney cartoon characters and was spilling the red outside of Mickey Mouse's trousers with rapid and careless strokes of a crayon.

Martin tried to ignore this and focus on tracing the inside of Donald's bill with an orange crayon that his sister had worn down to a rounded nub point making it almost useless for fine, detailed work.

Martin knew that h had colored that way once, because when he got angry at his sister for it Mom and Dad told him so.

She would grow out of it they told him.

The table at which Martin and Meagan sat at the side of the shelter's main room shook beneath them- enough to rattle against the metal wall to which it was mounted. The crayons, out of their box already took to rolling and two dropped from the table.

Meagan continued to scribble in uneven strokes leaving Martin to recover the crayons from the floor.

Martin found the crayons to be on the run, and seeming to hop with little quivers that ran through the floor. The red overhead lights made it difficult enough to see, but the flickering that they were doing made the crayon hunt harder. Martin knew he could not lose any crayons, because like Dad said- they were hard to come by on Mars- and these, though worn down were all he and Meagan had for a while.

It was Christmas tomorrow though, and Santa probably knew that they needed more.

"Lord, we've established contact with surviving units of Action Commander Nikhur's Division- several companies strong.", reported Commander Omra of the 89th Heavy Shock Division to her superior, Action Commander Balko, "-And we've been able to make contact with many of Action Commander Dihr's unit."

"Coordinate consolidation of what remains of both units and assign command to the highest ranking officer we can contact. The merged unit is to cover in the foothills and await orders to advance.", Balko instructed from inside his Nacht-``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````Rau combat suit as he surveyed the objective to the northeast, "Nikhur's unit was in the open and there were survivors. Dihr was moving up through more substantial terrain. There will be survivors from his unit as well. They are just coming back to their senses-. We may salvage a combat effective division out of the pieces yet."

Balko was confident in his assessment of the situation.

As a civilization of lesser and evolving technology, the probability of tactical nuclear weapons had been one that had been understood in the planning phases of the assault on this planet.

Nikhur, impulsive as Balko had always known him to be had sacrificed the safety of his unit in moving them across open ground for the possibility of positioning himself to more quickly join the battle when it came.

His hastiness had cost him his life apparently, and more unfortunately a good portion of his division had been lost as well.

Dihr had consistently been more cautious in his unit's movements overland, and had been slightly less impulsive than Nikhur. He had elected to move his division by loose, parallel columns through the broken terrain north of the path selected by Nikhur. He had surmised, and correctly so, that the orbital barrage would be a lengthy one and as a result it was more vital to guard from casualties and to arrive in mass than to arrive quickly at the final rallying point.

Events were proving his decision correct.

The enemy's use to use nuclear weapons was not surprising to Balko- even with their reduced effectiveness in the thin atmosphere of this world, they were the most destruction that could be wrought with the most minimal exposure of his own forces.

The move was logical, but at the same time Balko sensed an air of weakness behind his opponent's tactical decision. The enemy had struck only the most visible elements of the assault force.

He wasn't seeing the force in its entirety-only those units carelessly exposed by their commander.

The enemy was now feeling to Balko like an animal cornered into a hole- swiping savagely at anything that attracted its attention.

The enemy's de-evolution into a primitive state was not Balko's concern.

Eliminating the objective was, and for that he was willing to make the sacrifice of a brief pause to wait.

"Inform all remaining units that I am assuming overall tactical command on the ground.", Balko said to his executive, "All units are to cover and hold position for now. We'll allow orbital support to reduce the enemy further."

A tight salvo of particle beam bolts ripped down through the sky and vanished behind the crest of a foothill that partially obscured Balko's view of the saturated target area.

A great flash illuminated the entire slope of the towering mountain- a more substantial secondary blast than Balko had seen up to this point.

The enemy was weakening, and the Fleet only required time before the operation would be handed in its entirety over to him.

It would not be long.

 **Earth Orbit**

" _Shit-._ ", muttered Lt. "Blotto" Franklin from Blue Banshee's B-Flight in a tone and at a volume that wasn't quite an exclamation. There was an urgency to the statement that explained why he would break the general rule of using coms, even on a secure channel, for chatter in a time when combat was expected.

"-There goes the station…"

Kroft twisted in her seat to check high on her seven o'clock to where Archer 42's relative position still should have been. The A.R.M.D. II platform was too far astern to have any hope of being seen as anything more than a grey dot against the star field, but as Blotto had suggested in his statement- it was standing out in its final moments in a blaze of glorious death.

Fine lines of blue- Zentraedi particle beams- streaked soundlessly through the firmament and in intersecting with their target billowed into brilliant but fleeting blossoms of white and orange.

Archer 42 had been, for all intents and purposes, a dead hulk minutes after the last escape shuttle had detached and begun its emergency descent from orbit toward Earth- but the termination of fire from the station was clearly not a decisive enough victory for the Zentraedi with whom Archer 42 had done battle. They were showing the determination to smash the abandoned station into even less threatening bits of wreckage.

"Someone's really gotta discuss _moderation_ with these guys-.", Fidget, also from B Flight, noted in her normal stab at humor that did actually draw a few laughs.

Kroft found herself grinning at least, but had to steel herself knowing that the Blue Banshees were far- both literally and figuratively- from being able to enjoy the luxury of humor.

That luxury, and whatever was to pass as _safety_ now still lay just over thirty-thousand kilometers away at the nearest evacuation "fall-back" option- RDF Fairchild , Alaska. There were options of course to divert to another A.R.M.D. in the constellation, or to rendezvous with an REF vessel rather than make the dash for and treacherous descent to Earth- but United Earth frequencies across the communication spectrum were glutted with com-traffic that was devoid of anything resembling the coordination needed to redeploy forces from one orbital post to another.

There was no sign of the Fleet, nor was there any sign that the Fleet would be coming.

Gravity seemed to be working unevenly over LCDR Queffle.

His body felt to him to be as light as a feather, while his head seemed leaden.

The world around him too was in flux- as though drifting between dreaming and waking.

For a moment he would hear intense conversations all around him with great clarity and would comprehend all that was being said, and in the next moment the conversations would drift far away and their point would be lost.

The sickening knowledge that Archer 42 was gone stuck with Queffle though- a painful constant along with a strange burning sensation on the left side of his face.

Archer 42 was gone- and Queffle knew that there was something more to be done- something that _he_ needed to do- but it would not come to him. Training would not let it go- but like attempting to climb a greased rope, no amount of effort gained him any significant advance to the desired end.

'Morris-.", Queffle said, not recognizing the strained voice as his own at first, "Chief?-."

A hand gripped Queffle's shoulder on his sightless side and a familiar voice lacking a name in the commander's head replied, "It's Chief Phelps, sir. Lieutenant Morris is on EV-4-. We lost Chief O'Toole aboard the station."

Queffle nodded as pieces of the episode came to him that had robbed him of the sight in his left eye, and more regrettably of O'Toole.

"Yeah- sorry. Things are a little fuzzy."

"You took a good knock to the brain-case there, sir- but you're going to be okay.", Phelps said, "Just to let you know- all four escape vehicles got free of the station. We're headed for the fall-back at Fairchild and should be there in just under three hours."

Queffle nodded again and things began to flow along the normal paths in his mind again- he had just needed a jump-start.

"Casualties-?"

Phelps hesitated, "Hard to say just yet sir. We're trying to keep off the radio as much as possible. We don't want to attract attention. At the time we buttoned up and shoved off though, we were still short twenty. Chief O'Toole and the others killed on the shuttle deck, plus two section chiefs reported casualties from their areas. A mess, sir- but it could have been a lot worse."

Something in Phelps' assessment of the situation caused it to strike home for Queffle that his command had gone inside of an hour from an armed space platform to four escape shuttles whose capacity was not even filled for the losses sustained. The commander realized that he knew _everyone_ aboard Archer 42 by face and name if not in some depth, and that he would be telling the families of twenty of them at some point why their loved one had not returned from space-.

The interior cabin illumination went from harsh, florescent white to a lurid red with the accompanying sound of the cabin speakers coming on.

The pilot, his voice edgy with the first syllables, said in unorthodox form, "We're going to need everyone to strap in tight here and seal up their E.L.S.E.s. We have company at our outer detection range and I'm not sure if they're seeing us or not. We may have to make a run for it-."

" _Aw shit-._ ", Phelps muttered, "Forget what I said about it _could be worse_ -."

Queffle heard heavy gauge zippers being run up all around him as he and Chief Phelps pulled the emergency tabs to either side of their chair backs, freeing the two halves of what was essentially a three-layer Mylar bag from slits in their seat sides.

The "Emergency Life Support Enclosures" were _feel good_ safety devices in the same vein as floatation seat cushions on an airliner, and about as useful in an actual emergency to Queffle's way of thinking. A fixture in the seats of lifeboats and escape shuttles, it was the response to the assumption that evacuees of a ship or space station would not have the time to don a full pressure suit before abandoning ship- and that if there was a need to abandon ship, there was also a possibility that the escape vehicle might sustain damage resulting in a loss of cabin pressure.

The result- a personal envelope of flimsy material that looked as though it was either intended to offer one more marginal safeguard to those whose misfortune had placed them on an escape vehicle- or a wrapper to better allow them to be heated and served.

Queffle freed the flaps of his E.L.S.E. down to the base of his seat's footplate and found the zipper there, exactly where it was supposed to be.

Pulling the zipper up, he attempted humor before he was sealed snugly into his own little world-

"At least we'll still be fresh when SAR finds us-."

If there had been any doubt in Kroft's mind about the identity or intentions of the bogeys that had appeared almost level on her squadron's seven o'clock moments before, there was little now.

Her Alpha's advanced, phased radar had quickly identified the "bogeys" by their RCS and return signals as "bandits"- and specifically, Zentraedi Fighter Pods.

One for one, or even in comparable numbers, the venerable Zentraedi fighter was outmatched in almost every performance characteristic by the second generation Veritech fighter. The Alpha had better range of sensors, integrated combat abilities, and longer reach of weapons- and these things had always given Kroft comfort in the event that she should ever do more than simulated battle with a Fighter Pod.

But now- that comfort had deserted Kroft.

The substantially larger, considerably heavier, less sophisticated Fighter Pods were now closing as part of what was clearly a classic fighter sweep with a twist of dogmatic Zentraedi military thinking:

Hit hard.

Hit fast.

Hit with the _overwhelming_ weight of numbers.

At 140 kilometers astern, Kroft knew that the flight of 40 Fighter Pods- two squadrons by standard Zentraedi unit break-down- was still outside of their range to track and engage her squadron or the four escape shuttles from Archer 42 by their own sensors- which meant a mother ship was vectoring them in.

For another minute perhaps she held the advantage of being able to dictate the terms of the engagement, and then it would become a slugging match. Kroft had no doubts about trading body blows with two squadrons of Fighter Pods- that was manageable. It was the other squadrons of Fighter Pods, hungry for a fight that she could not see but _knew_ had to be changing heading to intercept- it was these that Kroft knew she had to fear tipping the balance against her.

She still had a minute or more, but she could not control the engagement with her back to the enemy.

"Shuttle Flight, Banshee Leader-.", Raven said, feeling her throat tighten, "Recommend you firewall it and keep it to the stops. We'll try to give you the best lead possible and keep your tail clear, but watch your six."

"Roger that, Banshee Leader.", replied the escape shuttle flight leader whom Kroft had grown to know well enough to have a reason beyond professional obligation to fly cover for, "Good hunting, Raven."

Kroft watched as the engines of the shuttles flared up to a full throttle burn, propelling the blunt-nosed, fat-bodied craft with their exaggerated delta-wing design out ahead of their fighter escort with a greater rate of acceleration than they appeared capable of.

As fleet of proverbial foot as the shuttles were, they stood no chance of outrunning Fighter Pods without a blocking action by their escorts. If overtaken, their purely defensive combat systems would at best buy them an extension of life measured in seconds.

The salvation of the four shuttles and everyone who had escaped Archer 42 was now the responsibility of the Blue Banshees.

"B Flight-.", Kroft instructed, feeling her tactical training take control, "When we break, go high and right and give us some top cover.. We'll throw all we've got at them from outside of their maximum missile range and scatter them. With any luck, we can close the gap loose-deuce before they get their heads on straight again and cause some real carnage. Everyone remember to close from _the outside_ , and to slash and run. They'll try to envelope you- so don't get into the pocket-."

Kroft realized she was spewing direction on things her pilots had trained for as rigorously as she. And like her, if for no other reason than to have something to focus on besides the tension, they just wanted to get into it.

"Well, let's see if these damn things do something more than look good on the showroom floor-. _BREAK!_ "

The Earth with its darkened hemisphere presented fell away to port and out of Kroft's field of view as she led her flight into a banking climb toward the closing enemy formation. The sensation of gravity absent in most elements of space flight returned with compounded interest, slamming and continuing to press Kroft into her seat with G-forces many times that normally experienced by humans on their home world.

The stars tumbled and whirled like leaves caught in a wind eddy as Kroft banked and turned her Alpha onto its new course with only the increased hiss of air flow through her oxygen mask and the labored sound of her own breathing offsetting the silence under the equivalent weight of six times normal gravity.

Early into the turn, Kroft had established visual contact of sorts with the inbound bandits. Overlapping target indicator boxes projected onto the interior of her helmet visor gave visual reference to the flight of Gnerl Fighter Pods that otherwise would not even have been visible to the pilot at their present range. In this respect, the engagement was like every simulation Kroft had flown.

Only now there was a distinct difference- not in the conveyance of information from sensory system to pilot, or performance of the platform- but something purely seated in the pilot's perception.

In the target indicator boxes, Kroft now felt an aura of malevolent menace.

Behind each, there was a living, sentient being- probably with combat experience that far exceeded her own- who had every intent on killing her.

"A Flight-.", Kroft instructed, "-Two part sequence on Basilisk release. We'll shoot two apiece, scatter the bandits, and fire a second salvo to keep `em scattered. B Flight, you'll cover in the same way from top cover as we rush in. If we can whittle their numbers down and keep them from regrouping, we've got a shot of starting their day with a helluva bitch-slap. –I'm calling One and Two-."

Kroft toggled the selector switch on her control stick as she used the indicator marker in the center of her field of view on the first two Gnerls in the alien squadron as they presented themselves in sequence left to right.. Her attack radar, having been tracking all of the bandits, now easily locked and painted two specific targets with frequency-coded beams of energy that her missiles' seeker-heads were able to track.

Kroft was distantly aware of her flight counting off their selected targets until each missile in the flight's first salvo was accounted for.

She felt a disconnect from the moment that was made more unusual by the amount of time she had dedicated to preparing for performance of this very act.

The only comparison she could draw was the first time she had dove from the 10-meter board into the community pool as a girl. There had been a very real sense of what was about to happen, and what exactly she needed to do to make it happen well- but even as her legs flexed to leap, the fear was not her own. It had been like being an observer to her own life.

And here she was again.

"Shoot-."

Two MATM-7 "Basilisk" missiles left the outer rails of Kroft's Alpha like greyhounds slipping their track pens and were joined by pairs from each of the other fighters in A Flight to the collective utterance of the code phrase- " _Fox Three"_ \- indicating an "active missile" launch.

The "Medium-range All-purpose Tactical Missile" was a streamlined, refined and enhanced weapon based on a generic design fielded by the Zentraedi.

Pre-Robotech guided weapons developed on Earth had been designed with the luxury of specific function.

Surface-to-air, or air-to-air weapons had been designed to effectively kill targets with constants in their physical characteristics. Whether an aircraft was a lumbering bomber or an agile fighter, it was almost uniformly "thin-skinned' and susceptible to proximity-fuzed fragmentation warheads.

On the other end of the spectrum, ground targets being either structure or vehicle tended to benefit from tougher hides of denser materials or armor and required a direct strike to deliver a fatal blow.

The attribute lines of these two distinct types of targets had in some instances come close, but never had they met or crossed.

The threats prophesized by the analysis of information deciphered from the wreckage of Zor's Battle Fortress- later to be _SDF-1_ \- in Earth's infancy of Robotechnology promised that in _future_ wars with enemies not yet encountered, the distinctions between "air" and "ground' vehicles was to be blurred if not erased.

Niche weapons designers whose areas of expertise had rarely crossed paths had been forced to come together to find compromise and balance for new weapons systems that could successfully hunt a target with the performance and agility of a fighter aircraft, while at the same time contend with the armor of something akin to a tank.

Sixteen copies of one such fruit of these labors now streaked through the void, devouring the range between their firing platforms and their intended targets.

Fired within the range of their semi-active seeker-heads, the Basilisks had transitioned from the guidance provided by the Alphas' attack radars to internal guidance the moment they had left the rails. They homed on reflections of their own radar energy that were returned from the enormous radar cross-section of the Gnerl Fighter Pods, while monitoring and taking note of each fighter's distinct IR signature that was used as a second element in the weapon's integrated tracking capability.

Beyond being able to "see" its target both by the reflection of its own radar energy and the heat energy emitted by each target- the Basilisk's one track electronic mind was cognizant of _what_ it was hunting. The "Generation 2" smart weapons not only knew the evasive abilities of the target type, but also had knowledge of the weaknesses of the target to attack in the nanoseconds of terminal flight to produce the highest probability of a kill.

The Basilisk had been conceived in a rigorous, multi-disciplinary engineering design approach and tested exhaustively both on proving ranges and in actual combat.

Kroft had personally seen "proof" of the weapon's utility once before- though she had only been credited with damaging the bandit and not scoring a kill.

And while "proof" of the Basilisk's lethality was only seconds away, it was the waiting that was allowing irrational doubt to plague the Blue Banshees- Lt Amanda "Raven" Kroft included.

Norghil _were_ the "expendables" after all.

Sub-Commander Gralton had, like all Te'Dak Tohl tactical grade officers, trained with the "improved" warriors of the lower caste that had been provided to them to supplement their numbers- and had reluctantly accepted that they had learned and performed admirably in exercise.

But they were still _norghil_ \- and in that, Gralton's choice for their use in battle was perfectly acceptable.

Intelligence briefings and predictions of enemy capabilities, gleaned from volumes of after action reports produced by Breetai in his first dealings with this alien species were proving to be accurate. The alien fighters possessed the ability to attack from well outside of the Gnerl's reach.

Only sensor data streamed from warships to Gralton's fighters had even given them _warning_ that there had been a threat.

That threat, sixteen alien fighters in all had split into two elements of equal size and had released an opening fusillade of missiles before any of the Gnerls in Gralton's probe force had made contact with their own sensors and been in a position to reply.

This response, while disproportionate in Gralton's favor in the number of missiles loosed, also quickly proved to be a validation of intelligence predictions of enemy capabilities.

The missiles fired from Gralton's Gnerls were "malfunctioning" at an alarming rate.

Over half had gone hopelessly astray within seconds of being fired, and the balance had continued to go off-track with measurable regularity- promising that none would reach their targets.

Even a fool without the benefit of numerous intelligence briefings could have seen that the missile "malfunctions" were not malfunctions at all.

As Intelligence had warned (perhaps not strongly enough) the micronian aliens were advanced in their development of electronic countermeasure systems, whereas the weapons provided to Zentraedi- norghil and Te'Dak Tohl alike- by The Masters were predicated on use against enemies with little or no countermeasure abilities.

This was not a unique occurrence in Zentraedi history- at least for norghil. The Robotech Masters had met many species with technologies greater than those provided to the warrior caste and had determined their fate to be one of extermination. The norghil had readily carried out the sentence passed down by The Masters with the same strategy that served well against the Invid- to overwhelm the enemy with numbers.

Numerous times this doctrine of warfare had been employed, and numerous times it had prevailed with varying degrees of loss to the norghil.

Te'Dak Tohl were _not_ norghil however.

Gralton knew this, and not in some elitist, "superior caste" sense either. Gralton knew that as the norghil caste was hobbled by limits in knowledge and technology, so had The Masters hobbled the Te'Dak Tohl with physical weaknesses, and with the lack of numbers that provided the norghil strength.

The Robotech Masters had enjoyed the illusion of these petty controls from the apex of their power, and all through their decline.

Supreme General Krymina had found a way to offset the physical weakness- The Withering- imposed by The Masters on the Te'Dak Tohl.

She could not increase the number of Te'Dak Tohl, but she had had the foresight to bring norghil in sufficient numbers to benefit from their "strength".

Sub-Commander Gralton was well aware of how best to use norghil in the specific tactical situation he mow found himself in- and was unapologetic in doing so.

From his squadron's position high in trail, Gralton watched the leading norghil squadron scatter first in a disassembly of their staggered line formation at the order of the squadron leader.

The initial "break" from group offensive tactics to individual defensive ones appeared as a disorderly assortment of radical maneuvers that could _sometimes_ thwart the interception of a Zentraedi missile if executed correctly and at the exact moment of opportunity.

What resulted distinguished the enemy's missile technology from that provided to Zentraedi in an indisputable demonstration of superiority.

Alien missiles swept the disintegrated lines of the leading Gnerl squadron with a horrific precision in their devastation. Some Fighter Pods seemed to burn into nothing in brief but intense clouds of flame, while others appeared to dash themselves apart on the flash of missile detonations leaving larger, recognizable pieces of themselves to tumble endlessly into oblivion.

Sub-Commander Gralton watched the bulk of two squadrons dissolve in this way.

The loss of warriors, even norghil warriors, was regrettable- but this was what they were for.

They had also afforded Gralton a view that confirmed what he expected. The aliens could not easily be beaten at a distance. To offset his enemy's technological advantage, he was going to have to put his hands around the enemy's throat- which meant getting _much_ closer. Getting much closer in turn meant having to wade through more alien missiles and their clear lethality.

Gralton would not sacrifice his Te'Dak Tohl pilots to such wastefulness.

Fortunately however, he had an abundance of norghil.

"Command, vector the on-station stand-by fighters to bracket this position-. Frontal advance is ineffective-.", Gralton requested from the ship whose fighter group he commanded.

There was no shame in the request.

The destroyer vanguard force which was bearing the greater burden in sweeping the alien defenses and satellite assets from the planet's orbit was ill-equipped to deal with the micronian fighters that had been anticipated to meet them.

The destroyers' fighter and mecha elements however were ideal for the finer strokes of opening the path to the alien world for the landing ships. Only with such an enormous battlespace to clear and a relatively small number of warriors and their machines to do it with- the need to deploy these units upon request from the even smaller, initial probing force of fighters had become evident..

It would take a measurable time for Gralton to receive the support he was requesting, but when they arrived, they would arrive in force.

Gralton's Gnerl squealed at him in a shrill, synthesized tone- a tone rarely heard by Te'Dak Tohl warriors. The fighter's threat warning system was telling him that his craft was being illuminated by radar energy- the kind of illumination whose reflection guided missiles.

Normally- as had been Gralton's experience against countless norghil- the prey was debilitated by use of the failure-mode device imbedded into all norghil vessels, fighters, and mecha. Rarely was a shot even fired in the direction of Gralton or his pilots.

Even in the rare encounter with Invid, of which Gralton had had two, missiles were a rare threat as only a small percentage of Invid mecha were armed with guided weapons, and even fewer survived long enough to enter the range to use them.

Uncommon as this experience was, the sub-commander nonetheless was trained to react.

Gralton pulled the twin yokes of his Gnerl violently back at him and depressed the thumb-switch throttle to the stops and was rewarded by a crushing blow that flattened him into his seat.

Radical changes in a target's velocity could in some instances throw a Gnerl's missile's homing system off, allowing the quarry to escape. The warning tone telling Gralton of impending danger would not subside no matter how he worked the yokes and rudders.

Apparently, the alien missiles lacked some of the shortcomings in refinement of their Zentraedi counterparts. Still, Gralton knew that his fate was not yet decided- there was still the last hope of a snap-roll away from the missile that if well-timed could force it to overshot him.

It was an admittedly slim chance, but a chance.

Reinforcements were inbound though, and knowing his lieutenants as Gralton did- inbound at full speed.

He only had to survive that long to benefit from their arrival.

The sub-commander's threat warning system maintained its vigilance in sounding the alert of danger to the pilot even as he continued to throw radical changes in his ship's flight path. The missile was clinging to him relentlessly though, like an Invid Scout setting its pincers.

Gralton's gaze swept the stars looking for the threat he was being warned of and caught a glimpse of an object- a blur of movement really- high above him and coming straight down as though it meant to land in his lap.

Not panicked, not paralyzed by danger in any way- Sub-Commander Gralton worked yokes, pedals and throttle with expert familiarity to roll and yaw his fighter with skill to the verge of spinning out of control to evade the object that was now visually confirmed to be an alien missile homing in on him.

The weapon's track translated aft in the final nanoseconds of its approach as though it would pass and miss through the vertical plane. Gralton was feeling the first sensations of relief when a great, invisible fist struck him heavily from above and behind.

Existence did not end as he had often thought it might with an all-consuming billow of flame, but rather continued with the violent G-force blows of his Gnerl spinning out of control.

Gralton found his instrument panel and displays to be dark now- his ship having been robbed of power- so without benefit of artificial means of orientation he tried to find a star or catch a glimpse of the alien planet he could use as a fixed point of reference to null his tumble.

Missiles detonated at points far and near as the world continued to spin around Gralton- the farthest still being too near to have been anywhere but in the ranks of his own fighters. The yokes of Gralton's Gnerl had also shown themselves to be unresponsive- dead in assisting the pilot in any way in bringing some control back to his fighter's flight.

All of these ill fortunes were feeling like distant problems to Gralton as he began to lose coherent thought to the excessive G-forces that were draining the blood from his head. Unconsciousness would take him soon, Gralton knew, and death not long after that. It was not the worst death a Warrior could have, he knew with his last, hazy powers of reason- it was just so inglorious.

Fleeting consciousness grasped at the other option- the pistol holstered to his thigh.

"-I guess that means the missiles work-.", Ramrod noted with grim satisfaction.

The Basilisks _had_ worked- superbly even. The first volley had caused an absolute panic in the Zentraedi Fighter Pods they had not savaged. The second salvo had caused an appalling rout. Every weapon fired had found a target, whether its assigned target or an alternate it had defaulted to as it had been in several cases where a Fighter Pod had been double-targeted and destroyed by the first Basilisk before the second could close.

Still, despite this minor failing in combat collaboration, The Blue Banshees had scored hits on every missile fired while not having suffered a single loss of their own.

"Yeah, and unless someone packed spares that they're willing to share, that's it until we're within spitting distance.", Dredger, an element lead from A-Flight pointed out.

Dredger had a gift for finding the cloud to every silver lining.

Lieutenant Kroft was aware that she should have been keeping her pilots focused- off the air unless they were calling out bandits and other threats.

Raven was also aware that Dredger was right- and that her pilots, like she, knew he was right.

Alpha Veritechs did not carry the ordinance to secure battlespace dominance without the long-range missile and gun support of base ships, or at least the more substantially armed Betas which despite their brutish appearance were formidable combat platforms.

No, the Alphas of Blue Banshee Squadron had shot their intermediate-range wad in two glorious spurts- but the afterglow was quickly waning.

Their substantial arsenal of MM-3A "Asp" missiles that provided them the ability to deal with a target-rich, close-quartered environment would be useless to them until the enemy was within eight kilometers. Seconds after that, guns could be brought into play, and at best the Blue Banshees would find themselves outnumbered in a brawl.

In simulations, on paper, and in projections that covered every conceivable scenario, the thinking behind the concept had proven true.

Only now, _these_ were not Invid, Archer 42 was gone with whatever long and medium-range missile support it could have provided- and Raven and her pilots were going to have to endure another thirty nerve-racking seconds or so of knowing that The Zentraedi who survived seeing their first line wiped out totally would be able to shoot back without response from the Blue Banshees.

However-.

"They're lightn' us up!."

Crawdad, from B-Flight called out the warring all had expected to hear and that all heard from their fighters' own warning systems before he had completed the exclamation. An unnerving, buzz of a tone told each pilot that their aircraft was being painted with electronic energy that was almost certainly indicative of an aggressor's attack radar.

The Alpha had been designed to fight in a battlespace likely to be rich with Invid- but not devoid of Zentraedi or other yet unknown threats whose weapons were more _conventional._

Things happened quickly, and without the fighters' combat computers requiring the infinitely slower human pilots to initiate action. Radars, enabled to do so because they were not operating within the realm and range of civilian tracking systems that could inadvertently be mistaken for a threat and neutralized, automatically activated the ECM portion of their functionality and replied directly to each hostile radar source with a beam of energy that was calculated to be at least disruptive to the aggressor's radar function, and under the best circumstances would overload and burn out the enemy's receiver rendering it electronically blind.

Kroft found her own fighter to be engaging this ECM function to its full potential- 20 bandits actively tracking her, and had every reason to suspect that her squadron's other ships were mounting the same radar-versus-radar defense.

"Have a helping of _what the fuck?-_ on us, you tube-grown bastards!", Ramrod shouted with defiant glee.

Kroft wanted to join in the sentiment and the taunting it was evoking from her pilots, but she was seeing on her radar what countless hours in simulation and a rotation through the "Blue Storm" training school had told her she could expect to see.

"Shut-up and look sharp- we've got a pocket forming-!"

The "pocket" or- if the offensive formation was achieved successfully, the "Slaughter Sphere"- was a combat tactic known to be common to the Zentraedi, born of experience with fighting the smaller and more maneuverable Invid mecha. Zentraedi Fighter Pod pilots would envelope Invid formations many times their own size from all three dimensions- which without fail (according to Zentraedi veterans turned instructors at Blue Storm) would cause the largely instinct-driven Invid to fragment and attack in all directions- sacrificing their weight of numbers.

The Gnerls would then commit to slashing attacks, using their greater speed and individual firepower to further break apart the Invid formation. As the purest form of the Slaughter Sphere had it, the slower but more numerous space-going Regult units would then sweep and clash with the fragmented Invid.

It was a brutal and sloppy tactic by human standards- but effective.

And whether you were an Invid, or a highly trained Alpha Veritech pilot, finding yourself inside of a Slaughter Sphere was likely to be one of the last of a short number of mistakes you would ever make.

It was evident that the leading Zentraedi elements were forming the dreaded pocket Kroft had been trained to recognize with their depleted numbers, but it was noticeably- almost hopelessly- sparse and porous. They had been reduced beneath the minimum number of Gnerls to effectively form a sphere or even a true pocket.

But Kroft knew that the enemy still had the advantage of numbers and was not going to allow them the advantage of position.

"A-Flight, come right fory-five and go to full burners- B-Flight, climb and keep at least a thousand meters top on them- _BREAK!_ "

 _Afterburners_ was a _loosely_ appropriate term.

The Veritech Design Bureau early in Earth's Robotechnology infancy had discovered (exactly _how_ not being a matter of official record) that the biologically and chemically inert fluid in which Flower of Life seeds were preserved, known as _Protoculture Suspense Medium_ , would generate a "Reflex Reaction" when introduced into the exhaust stream of a Veritech's plasma-reaction engine stage.

The official determination was that _bio-ethereal transference_ was somehow taking place between the Flower seeds and the suspense medium, and that _bio-ethereal translation_ was occurring in the generation of the thrust through the engine plasma stage.

Independently, neither phenomenon had a tangible performance effect.

Merging the two correctly however created the surge of kinetic energy that had been harnessed in the "afterburner" stages of Gen 1 and 2 Veritech engines.

 _Enhanced thrust_ was the term the flight manual chose to describe the effects of afterburners on Alpha performance- accompanied by relevant and technically correct line graphs showing the progressive increase in thrush-to-weight ratio per percentage of afterburner employed.

A sharp wit at some point had come up with the sophomoric but appropriate analogy of _understanding_ the benefits of having a colonoscopy versus actually _having_ one.

Kroft was having one now.

The bone-crushing, joint-straining weight of G-forces flattened the pilot into her seat as Alpha Veritech and pilot executed a turn that flew in the face of most of Newton's Laws.

The starfield before Kroft whipped left in a blur as she pulled the nose of her fighter through the turn she had ordered. The Alpha's impressive rate of turn and the necessity to apply afterburners in short bursts or risk damage to the engines made the maneuver jarring- but brief.

"Chop burners!", Kroft ordered, seeing at a glance that her squadron was no longer in the sweeping path of the Gnerl "pocket".

The G-forces slipped off quickly and the pilot could feel the blood begin to return to her upper body and head.

"All flights, break by pairs and attack!"

Kroft's A-Flight broke all around her, peeling away and separating into four, two-ship elements of leader and wingman. A quick but unnecessary glance over her five o-clock zone found her wingman, Lt Staff, still in place and covering her tail.

The time for squadron-level tactics was over now, and the moment for the skill and aggressiveness of the individual pilots was at hand.

Kroft had done all she could to place her pilots into the best possible position to enter the close-quarters phase of the fight- A-Flight off to the left of the Zentraedi formation that had not yet abandoned the "pocket" configuration, and B-Flight above it.

Now The Blue Banshees would have to do for themselves- Kroft included.

 _No guts, no glory._

Kroft snap-rolled left with stick and rudder in toward the enemy and was kissed with the welcome violence of the maneuver.

"You gonna keep up with me, Ramrod?", Kroft asked as the G's eased off with the slackening of the turn that Kroft calculated would bring her into trail of a cluster of Gnerls she had selected as her initial targets.

"You just clear the path and _I'll_ watch our asses!", Ramrod replied, his voice also under the strain of Newtonian physics.

Up to this moment, Kroft could have compared the engagement to any number of combat simulations she had flown. The enemy was symbology either on her cockpit's central MFD, on her HUD, or projected onto the interior of her helmet visor- and moves and countermoves were little more than a complex game of chess played in real time.

As her turn continued and the deflection angle and range on her targets lessened, artificial indicator boxes suddenly contained recognizable shapes, and then those shapes began to take on detail.

For the first time Kroft was seeing the Gnerls that wanted to kill her- and behind the opaque canopies that she could now make out were _pilots_ that she was expected to kill.

 _So be it._

Clearly the earlier exchange of missiles and the asymmetrical losses on the Zentraedi end of the exchange had damaged their command structure within the surviving elements. _Someone_ had assumed command in the carnage and chaos and had kept with the initial "game plan" to employ the Slaughter Sphere tactic.

 _Bad call._

Whether they had been rattled or reluctant to accept the obvious, _someone_ in the Zentraedi flight had allowed themselves to slip into a tactically disadvantageous position.

Pilots were pilots- or so Kroft reckoned- and _someone_ recognized this.- though a few critical moments too late.

The Gnerl formation scattered. In pairs or as single strays they went in every direction like shards from a shattered crystal glass.

The alien unit abandoned cohesion just as Kroft entered range to fire.

Technology had made the act of taking life simpler than most children's games.

Firing apertures snapped open to release MM-3A Asp missiles with each depression of the firing trigger, limited in rapidity only by the speed with which Kroft could identify targets through the movement of her head and the "death dot" on her helmet visor's interior.

The call of, "Fox Three" indicating the launch of an "active" guided missile by an Alpha filled the squadron frequency, the words overlapping one another.

Asps filled the darkness of space all around Kroft, visible only by the steady glow of their low-vapor emitting engines as they crossed paths with one another in rapid sprints to their targets.

Officially classified as a "dogfighting" missile in the realm of air-to-air combat, the multi-purpose Asp benefited from the dual redundancy of active pulse-radar and passive infra-red homing. While neither system was infallible, combined they were highly effective in intercepting targets over the short range afforded to them by the limited capacity of their rapid-burn, solid-fuel engines.

Kroft had lost visual track of the missiles that she had fired, a pair fired in quick succession at each of four targets. She in fact had also lost track of her targets in the general, disorganized scramble, but her Alpha was not so easily distracted- monitoring the progress of each weapon until there was a merge or miss.

Each successful connection resulted in a brief and distinct hum, or "flatline" tone as pilots had come to call them. Sensor logs could be analyzed later to validate claims of a "kill", or provide evidence of one when the pilot's attention was elsewhere by necessity.

Fighter combat happened quickly in the air, and happened even quicker in space.

Kroft got impressions of the violence she had loosed- flatline tones coinciding with flashes indicative of Asps finding their marks.

The instant before they would have left her field of view, Raven saw a Gnerl she had fired upon loose its high engine and rudder- probably killing the fighter and its pilot effectively if not for the purposes of the Alpha pilot's tally later.

A second Gnerl, maybe only accompanying the first in the same direction of evasion took both Asps broadside just below the canopy, port side. There was little doubt that it would be credited as a "kill" as it fractured with a brief and somewhat unimpressive flash from the tumbling wreckage of which a single pulse-jet engine emerged, still active, and corkscrewed away into the void.

And then whatever remained fell aft of Raven's ship and was lost from both sight and mind..

"Good kills, Raven- all three!", Ramrod yelled with the volume set by surges of adrenaline. In trail, Kroft's wingman had a split-second's longer vantage of the results of the action, and had actually witnessed more than Kroft herself- three of four visually confirmed.

Thoughts of building a combat record were short and fleeting as a familiar voice other than her wingman, Ramrod's, got Kroft's attention.

"Raven, three breaking low and left on your ten! I've got no joy!-."

Kroft scanned the stars just ahead of her port wing at the prompting by the voice and caught a blur of motion through her horizontal plane of flight.

Raven was prepared to repeat the call of "no joy" on the bandits- the battlespace was still rich with opportunities that would not require a radical maneuver to engage- until she saw the pair of Alphas low at her eleven o'clock.

"Knuckles" on lead with "Blotto" as wingman were working into position on a pair of fleeing Gnerls, and by Blotto's posture it was unclear whether the wingman had seen the three Gnerls enter his rear hemisphere. They had already passed below his ability to see and the Zentraedi seemed to sense the opportunity for a potentially easy kill by the way they leveled quickly out of their dive and began to bring their noses around for an intercept.

Kroft rolled her fighter and pulled the nose into a dive, calling, "Blotto, clear your six!"

As she dove on a steep angle of attack, Kroft realized her position had not been optimal to slip unseen through the Gnerls' blind spots into kill position. If the Zentraedi pilots were experienced, they would have their heads on swivels and would see the Alpha engaging. Kroft understood that she might not get a kill, but that she might get the Gnerls to disengage and scatter.

Pursuit and re-engagement would then be an option.

The Gnerl element had an _alternate_ scenario in mind.

One of the Zentraedi had clearly seen Kroft diving on them and their reaction was typically Zentraedi in mindset if not insane in a practical, self-preserving sense.

The Alpha pilot saw the puffs of thrust from the Gnerls' maneuvering jets and recognized the implication immediately.

Blunt noses with their maws bristling with particle beam cannon lifted and turned in near unison toward Kroft and her wingman- the darkness of space exploding in vivid blue as the "cone" of engagement encompassed the Alphas. The Gnerls seemed to stand and pivot on their tails, the line of their bullet-shaped bodies no longer pointed in the direction of their movement- "skidding' as it were through the frictionless environment.

Kroft threw the stick hard left and stomped the left rudder pedal, firewalling the throttles as she closed the firing trigger a single time. Energy bolts passed on all sides in blinding brilliance went to starboard and subsided in the split second in which Kroft was being crushed right by the sudden direction change she had put her fighter into. She fought to keep eyes on the Gnerl flight but lost them as they managed the incredible task of pitching a positive 90º and rocketing out of the engagement on a blast of thrust from their pulse jets.

Kroft chopped her throttle as the G-forces were beginning to ease and bracing for the pain she knew to be coming. She flipped the Alpha Veritech's mode selector switch high on the throttle grip back a notch.

The Alpha's thruster/leg modules snapped down and away from the length of the airframe at the "knee joint" as the arms rotated out into deployment as the transformable fighter reconfigured into the half-plane, half-mecha, "Guardian" form. A burst of thrust from the maneuvering jets tumbled the chicken-like craft in a reverse summersault that brought the nose back in the direction of the expertly piloted Gnerls- and with the nose, also the MM-60 launcher system.

Launcher panels snapped open in the dorsal and leg units, and eight Asps took flight in quick succession.

Kroft watched the missiles fly through the considerable distraction of brief exposure to 8-Gs. Her oxygen mask rammed air down her throat in an attempt to refill her flattened lungs but met with the added resistance of a long groan trying to escape.

The missiles were tracking, but had been fired at their maximum range at rapidly retreating targets.

Kroft knew she would need to get closer for a kill, or disengage in hopes that the Zentraedi pilots would elect to do the same.

The pilot thumbed her mode selector back full-forward, felt the bump of the arms and legs of the Guardian realigning into Fighter configuration, and jammed the throttles to the stops.

If the summersault in Guardian mode had been a discomfort of G-forces, the complete change in velocity that sounded the GLOC warning was an agony that Kroft suspected was only known by the hot iron between a blacksmith's anvil and maul. Kroft felt a scream trapped in her throat that could not escape, but her sympathetic Alpha seemed to convey the feeling for both of them as the frame creaked and groaned in the battle between inertia and the fighter's engines.

The Gnerls had put considerable distance between themselves and Kroft.

They were reversing in whatever the aliens had named their version of the "Split-S" by the time her Alpha had begun to build forward velocity again. Recovering from the daze of brief exposure to 12 Gs, Kroft realized suddenly that she had no idea where her wingman, Ramrod, was- and that she was staring down a _pair_ of Gnerls.

The third was nowhere immediately to be seen.

" _Ramrod, where the hell are you?!"_ , Kroft yelled through clenched teeth.

Raven was anticipating a repeat of the high-G experiences she was still aching from- if she survived the merge with the reduced Gnerl element. She suspected and hoped that Ramrod had broken off to engage the third, missing Gnerl which had almost certainly split away to rejoin the engagement from another angle.

 _"I'm low on your seven, clearing your tail!"_

At the scattering of the three ship Gnerl element, Ramrod had kept his well-trained eye on the activities of the Fighter Pod flying the "cover" position- and had found himself justified in doing so. While Raven was focusing on the "primary" and "secondary" ships, their guard had skirted out and around on her left with the intention of performing the function of a wingman.

Whether the Gnerl pilot had lost sight of Ramrod in the painfully elongated moments of high-velocity maneuvering, or whether he was gambling that he could blindside Raven and make his escape was unclear to Staff, but he was slipping into position to shoot without contest.

" _Am I clear?!_ ", Kroft demanded- sounding on the verge of the decision she had to make of whether to continue her engagement or break and retreat.

"Two seconds!", Staff calculated as he entered a left barrel roll that put him in a low position just off to the port of the target's centerline.

Switching his weapons selector to the laser cannons position, Ramrod was given the aiming reticule inside of his helmet which he centered on the Gnerl's tail before he closed the trigger.

A storm of rapid-cycle laser bolts zipped in a near continuous stream and saturated the Gnerl's tail- extinguishing and shredding the low starboard pulse jet with the first impacts.

The Gnerl snap-rolled right, pulled his nose into the maneuver, and vanished leaving only a stream of thin smoke and tattered pieces of a disintegrating tail in his wake.

Ramrod's instinct was to pursue and finish the kill, but he'd knocked the bandit free of Kroft's tail- and with sufficient damage incurred to put him out of the fight. There were also two remaining bandits- undamaged and equally keen as he and Raven to fight- and they were bearing down on the Alphas with their business ends presented.

No, despite great temptation Staff knew his obligation was a supporting role.

" _You're clear!_ "

"Fox Three- _two!_ ", Kroft called, double-shooting on the lead Gnerl that was just outside of Asp range, but on the direct merge and with the apparent intent of burning out his own engines in the process.

The missiles cleared the dorsal launchers and cast a soft, amber light into Kroft's cockpit as they rushed away.

She had already moved the aiming reticule left to the trailing Gnerl- allowed the targeting system to acquire, and released.

"Fox Three- _two!_ "

Kroft barrel-rolled out to starboard as the expected fusillade of particle beam fire ripped the void through what had been her flight path a split-second before.

The fire from the lead Gnerl- the only one of the pair in position to fire- lasted for only that first brief burst before the pilot ceased the attack to try to evade the Asps tracking him.

Both weapons struck head-on, shattering the first three to four meters of the fighter and sending the rest tumbling out of control and with no signs of attempted recovery.

To Kroft's chagrin, before she lost sight of the toppling Gnerl, the second pair of Asps struck it- leaving no doubt about the first bandit being "killed" but leaving the second unthreatened.

As "dogfighting" missiles, the Asp was provided with reliable sensors and homing logic- but it did not possess the software and CPU processing power that ranked other missiles in the Defense Forces' inventory as "smart" or "genius".

Either by the second bandit's intent and skill, or completely by chance the second pair of Asps had found the wrong target.

"- _Where'd his wingman go?!"_ , Kroft demanded as she continued to scan the stars around her for the second Gnerl that had vanished from sight through the pass.

"Five passing into six low!", Ramrod replied, having had the advantage of distance from the high-speed merge, "-Looks like he's bugging out-!"

Kroft leveled her fighter and searched out over the trailing edge of her starboard wing to confirm Ramrod's report.

The Gnerl was there, roughly where Kroft expected him to be, and he was rapidly egressing the engagement. –But it was the appearance of multiple target indicator boxes in her HVD that captured Kroft's attention.

A quick glance at her radar display confirmed the rapid approach of bandits- _lots of bandits_ \- flying in successive waves and with sufficient numbers to form and execute an effective "slaughter sphere".

"-No-.", Kroft corrected as she heard calls from her pilots and saw the signs on her own radar that the Gnerls in this engagement zone were breaking contact, "-He's joining up with friends-. _Shit!.._ "

" _Damn,_ and I was having _such_ a good day..", Ramrod muttered, joining up with Kroft, "-And you've got port wing damage-."

Kroft glanced back at her port wing and found the very tip- perhaps thirty centimeters- gnawed away by particle beam fire. She had had no control or performance difficulties through her last maneuvers, and the damage was clearly outboard of the port wing control thrusters, so Kroft's concern was minimal- at least in comparison to more pressing threats.

"Blue Banshees, break-off engagement and rejoin Archer shuttle flight!", Kroft ordered, every second hesitated being another second closer the approaching net would be.

"All elements, report damage and losses-."

Blue Banshee Squadron began to form-up by flight around Kroft as she turned her nose toward the darkened hemisphere of Earth.

"We lost Blotto and Knuckles-.", Crawdad, the B-Flight leader reported, "-Greaseball and I saw it-. They ran headlong into a ditto element that came outta fuckin' nowhere. It was over before we could even call warning- no ejections."

Kroft's gut twisted and seized with shock that quickly turned to anger.

She and Ramrod had cleared them and had damn near gotten wasted in the process.

Kroft realized almost as quickly as she had felt the anger that she was feeling it toward the wrong parties- Blotto and Knuckles.

Hadn't they checked to make sure they were cleanly disengaged from the fight?

 _No one_ walked head-on into a flight of Gnerls without seeing them- not even rookies- and neither Blotto or Knuckles were, _had been_ , rookies…

 _Fog of war._

The thought had popped into Kroft's head from nowhere- a defensive reflex that she had not even known she had.

 _Fog of war._

"I'm down an engine-.", Wallop, from Kroft's A Flight said, sounding dismissive of his own condition after hearing of Blotto and Knuckles.

Kroft remembered bumping elbows with the stocky, fair-haired Blotto while suiting up hastily in the locker room aboard Archer 42. Normally, either of them would have asked for pardon for the insignificant offense – but at the moment it had seemed completely unimportant.

For reasons that stood up to no logic, it seemed greatly important now.

Had Blotto and Knuckles been clear on the path they had disengaged on?

Kroft couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember checking either.

Too much happening too fast-.

 _Fog of war._

Kroft also knew that neither she nor the other Banshees could dwell on it now.

"We're not out of the woods yet- so keep your minds in the game. Wallop, are you gonna be able to bring your ship to ground, or are you going to need an option to divert to?"

The response came from Wallop's element lead, Gruffy- whose voice was anything but-, "That's a negative, Raven- the thruster is in place but its all shot to hell, and the stabilizer's eighty percent gone. No way it's gonna hold together through atmospheric interface- and if it did, Wallop would have to bail."

Kroft checked her central MFD's radar display, increasing the scale. Following the loss of Archer 42, which would have normally provided an InfoLink feed, her Alpha had picked up on an alternate and had tied in.

She looked for "blue force", or friendly symbology-. A ship, or an A.R.M.D. II platform that could land a damaged Alpha- or at least signs of other friendly fighters in the area that the Blue Banshees might join up with.

There were none outside of the four-shuttle flight from Archer 42 within a six hundred kilometer sweep- and those, another flight of Alphas were retreating with equal haste with their own flight of shuttles toward Earth.

The problem with being the leading edge of manned defense was that in a "retreat" scenario, one became the rear guard as well.

Unfortunately, there was also something to be guarded against.

In expanding her display to find refuge for Wallop through InfoLink, Kroft had also gotten some sense of the reinforcements that the Gnerls had left the fight to join. What had been ominous enough as several squadrons' strength was now showing to be a sweep in force with scores of Gnerl squadrons in the lead. As could be expected as part of a Zentraedi offensive operation the first Battle Pod elements were appearing in trail of the Gnerls, following to mop up whatever scraps of defense the fighter sweep left for them.

Kroft knew their base ships could not be far behind- but did not expand the scale on her display any further to confirm this.

She didn't need to see that- she didn't _want_ to see that.

She didn't want to see either that the leading Gnerl squadrons were making a slow but steady gain on the Blue Banshees. Despite their substantially larger size and greater mass, the Gnerl had immensely powerful engines that gave it a thrust-to-weight ratio that was slightly superior even to the Alpha Veritech.

Sometimes battle was decided by skill and spirit- and other times it was decided by "the numbers".

The Blue Banshees had scored a victory by the former, but the Zentraedi were looking to even up by the latter.

"We'll find something-.", Kroft said, trying to sound assuring and failing in all but the words.

Battle sometimes also had the potential to be influenced by miracles-.

Sometimes.

 _ **Artoc**_

Darius stood in quiet study- true scientific observation- not of the well-coordinated frenzy of activities on the command deck below, but of Supreme General Krymina.

In the minutes since the main force had de-folded between the orbital paths of the alien world now under assault and the fourth planet of the star system, her mood had changed noticeably from disciplined stoicism to indignant discontent.

She stood just within the transparent anterior of the command bubble surveying the multiple viewscreens that were relaying with their various displays the successful execution of plans that had been drafted, revised, and refined for seasons- but wore the scowl of one horribly wronged.

Philisto alternated nervous glances between the displays over the command deck- which he visibly did not understand- and then mostly between Darius and Krymina. As intently as Darius was in study of the Zentraedi commanding officer, so Philisto was in study of him. It was not the same passive but keenly interested form of observation though, but heavy with the sensible energy of an individual trying to project a single thought into the mind of another.

Darius could feel Philisto warning him against any kind of provocation at this moment, intentional or inadvertent.

Fortunately, Darius calculated correctly, Krymina was elsewhere. At a glance to those making only a cursory examination, she appeared too absorbed in the play of what was decidedly becoming a one-way battle.

Darius had identified the nature of the supreme general and what drove her though, and knew that in the streams of data flowing before her that she was looking for something specific.

"Supreme General, I'm pleased to report the collapse of orbital defenses over the planet's dark hemisphere.", Caldettas announced from the command deck below, "Vanguard units have reported heavier initial losses than expected, but well within operational limits. Defensive action now appears to be ground-based and dwindling. Advanced units are moving in to secure planetary orbit in preparation for landing operations-."

"Where is Breetai?", Krymina asked as though Caldettas's report had missed the points of the main objective, "I am here-. Why does he not come out for battle?"

There was a pause of uncertainty from Caldettas.

Darius had heard this before in briefings or meetings of staff officers when Krymina had posed a question so off the main topic that it had caught the executive officer hopelessly unprepared.

"There is no way to be sure of Breetai's location, Supreme General, however-."

One of the command center's main displays flashed into polar view of the target world- provided by scout ships standing off outside of the suspected range of the alien defenses.

Orbital defenses over the northern hemisphere of the world were shown clearly, the decimated elements drifting slowly across the terminator from night into day, and the combat-effective moving from light toward dark.

Darius could see the movement of advanced assault units advancing toward the planet's high orbit. As it had been explained to him, once they had exploited the void in the planet's spherical shell of defense, they would expand it at the low orbital level. The defenses, it had been explained to him, were designed to defend from exterior threats and act in coordination. It was suspected that they could not easily defend against the threat of fighter and mecha units attacking individual space stations in the constellation.

Darius had made the analogy of peeling the rind off of a fruit- a comparison lost to the Zentraedi he quickly found, as they had only a conceptual knowledge of fruit- never having eaten any, much less gone through the process of peeling one having a rind.

Despite blank stares from all that had been at the table, Darius was confident that the analogy had been an appropriate one and had assured them as much.

"Best speculation, Supreme General, is that Breetai is either aboard the occupied Robotech Factory, or aboard a command ship from which he can direct operations.", Caldettas said, referring initially to the massive automated facility that was now passing almost precisely on the opposite side of the alien world from Krymina's forces.

"Up to this moment, there have been no indications of fleet deployment from the Factory, Supreme General. This leads me to suspect that Breetai either intends to use his Robotech Factory as a fortress from which to mount a defense- keeping what ships he has in reserve for follow-on action, or-."

"Or he intends to run.", Krymina said coldly- a sharp edge of bitterness to her words, "-He will _not_ run from this. I will burn this world to ashes if he tries-."

Caldettas was hesitant, knowing Krymina to be volatile at moments and sensing that this was one of them.

"Supreme General, I am duty-bound to advise that if Breetai's intention is to mount his defense from the Robotech Factory, that we must move a large portion of our major assets up now while the alien world still provides a lee for our approach. All simulations show the best outcome in this scenario is with minimal approach exposure. If Breetai has use of the facility's weapons systems, the advantage is his at long-range engagement. We must commit now, before the Factory crosses the terminator into night. At our present range, it will take almost all of the available time to close the distance to our optimal range of engagement."

"Order the Fleet to advance.", Krymina said without hesitation, "-Maximum speed. Leave behind any units that cannot keep pace. –And open all communications frequencies for transmission- uncoded."

 **RDF Headquarters Intelligence Annex,**

 **Yellowstone City**

Commander Anne Weitzel had known from the first moment, from the first utterance of the word _attack_ that the situation was bad.

She had not expected that the situation was _this_ bad.

A word- a code phrase- as chilling as the word _attack_ and more telling had spread quickly through RDF Headquarters.

" _Exodus._ "

The single word had separated every person in Headquarters into the smaller division of those who were priority to evacuate, and the vastly larger group whose responsibilities were to evacuate the priority evacuees, or man their posts until the situation became untenable and then "relocate" to an "alternate site".

While there were documented plans and justifications for evacuating some, it was well understood that in execution the staff of headquarters was to be divided into those whom care was being taken to save and those who would have to fend for themselves. It was equally telling as it was not spoken of that there was no true guidance for what the responsibilities of an "alternate site" were- other than the broad mandate to "maintain standard operations as best as can be sustained with available personnel and resources".

Weitzel, along with some of her critical staff within the IFD had the uncomfortable privilege of being designated as "Tier 2".

They would be evacuated as critical personnel- _in turn_.

"Tier 1" Personnel, including the Government's three branches, senior ministry staff, and the military chiefs of staff and their support structure had been mobile in under ten minutes as was obvious by the air activity over the capital. The planners of Exodus had probably thought that the overwhelming show of force would provide the civilian population with comfort in the assurance that their Government would remain functioning in their best interest. Weitzel had seen a good number civilians rushing through the halls, but none look comforted in the least.

Perhaps it was because they were of the unfortunate sort that understood the meaning of Contingency Plan "Exodus".

There was no way to tell what the civilian population at large thought of the swarm of fighters crossing the skies over Yellowstone City, or of the shuttles that were dipping in for touch landings and dust-offs like perturbed dragonflies at pre-determined, suitable landing zones.

There was no telling what the civilian population would think when they found that this activity had been strictly for the extraction of a chosen few.

As a Tier 2 designate, Weitzel found herself feeling like one of the slower rats to be leaving a sinking ship.

Tier 2 meant that her evacuation was deemed important and planned for, but would follow the extraction of the "essential" souls from a world in peril.

This also meant that Weitzel and the other Tier 2 personnel had more time to think about what was going on around them and what might happen to those left behind.

Weitzel did her best to use that time to "prepare" for her possible duties after her transfer to the suddenly ironically-named "Walhalla"- the GS-95 Robotech Factory. This preparation was in essence the breaking of every rule and regulation associated with work in a secure facility.

The commander removed computer drives and any loose files that she could lay hands upon and stuffed them into a gym bag whose carrying capacity quickly became woefully inadequate. Procedures for any number of evacuation scenarios, including Exodus, actually forbade exactly what Weitzel was in the process of doing.

They could shoot her later if they liked, Weitzel reasoned to forgive herself.

It occupied her mind as she, and familiar co-workers whom she also considered friends- those she would be leaving to chance shortly- helped her fill what little space remained in her "GOOD", or _Get Out Of Dodge_ bag with what the gym bag would not accommodate and what could be crammed in with survival necessities and changes of socks and underwear.

Weitzel thanked every colleague for their contributions to their collective work that would escape with her- but she found that in doing so, she was unable to make eye contact.

"-From the past twenty-four months, so-."

"What?", Weitzel asked, realizing that she had not registered a word said by Lt Giles, a recent transfer from the same REF Intelligence office Weitzel herself had begun in sometime before.

Dutifully, Giles repeated herself, and this time Weitzel focused on what was being said. She also picked up on the hint of a tremble in the young woman's voice.

"I pulled all contact reports and ship's logs of vessels making contact with Zentraedi vessels from Fleet records, going back twenty-four months, ma'am. Maybe as we start to figure out who they are exactly- it's possible that something from the recent past may be of importance. It can't hurt to have anyway-."

Weitzel knew as Giles did that records of every kind critical to Government or military function were uploaded constantly to Walhalla in preparation for a possibility such as was becoming reality at this moment. It was not about ensuring the safety of information for Giles though, Weitzel sensed- it was about preserving the notion that something she had done might make a difference.

Weitzel took the solid memory drive from her subordinate for that reason more than any tangible need- recognizing that she was stuffing her gym bag with security violations for the same reason.

"Julian, why aren't you getting Rebecca to the shelter-?"

Weitzel could not understand how Giles was worried about sensor logs and after-action reports while the five-year old girl whose picture occupied two frames and every open space of fabric wall in Giles' cubicle was out of sight. She was an adorable merging of her fair-skinned black mother and native-Peruvian father- and the center of both their worlds despite the long hours worked at headquarters.

"Miguel got tonight off because he has a family-. To be there tomorrow morning, you know- for _Christmas-._.", Giles explained, spelling out the planning that was no longer relevant that had allowed her husband to be away from the firehouse on Christmas Eve, "-He'll have to work New Year's though, and that's always a rough shift-."

Realizing that she was not the only one struggling with abject terror, Weitzel put a hand on the lieutenant's face- quieting what was becoming a ramble and gave the lieutenant the permission she needed to walk away.

"Julian- go- _now._ "

Giles nodded.

"Good luck, Commander-."

Weitzel nodded, "-And to you too-."

Three loud slaps of flesh on a flat surface ended the moment abruptly, and Giles retreated through the office door past Brigadier General Shiloah. Shiloah's palm was still planted firmly on the door having beaten it with more strength than Weitzel had imagined he had in his thin body.

Shiloah half turned to call after the lieutenant who had disappeared into the office hallway, " _Go down to the shelter, now! NOW!"_

Weitzel found herself gawking at Shiloah who even at times of irritation she had never heard speak above a conversational volume.

He looked to her next, his eyes calm but commanding, "We're headed there too. Our shuttle will be here in fourteen minutes, but our bases and cities are starting to take fire-. We need to be in the shelter until then- _in case._ "

"I'm almost set-.", Weitzel said, nodding her understanding of the situation as she realized she was in the process of trying to pack her stapler and coffee cup into her overflowing GOOD bag.

The office lights flickered out and then came back to life as emergency power fluttered and a distinguishable tremor ran through the structure.

Shiloah's hand was around Weitzel's wrist as solidly and as firmly as a shackle before the lights had fully come back and he tugged at her with the same strength that her father had once used when she was a tomboy of a girl and he had found her prodding a copperhead near the backyard stream with a stick.

"You're done _now!_ ", Shiloah said, not releasing her from his grip but forming a chain of sorts that linked him to her, and Weitzel to her GOOD bag by the other hand.

The hallway in the IFD which had been bustling less than thirty minutes before was now as empty as one would have expected it to be on Christmas Eve- only now for other reasons.

"Which cities?", Weitzel asked as Shiloah towed her behind him in the direction of the stairwell that would take them even deeper into the underground levels of the Annex and to the emergency shelter found there.

"Hard to say-.", Shiloah explained, "Civilian broadcasting is off the air, and I've had my staff getting everyone out or to the shelter- so I haven't been in the situation room-. Toronto, I know for sure, and both Wright-Patterson and Minoc we know have been hit- possibly Nellis and Maxwell."

Weitzel was listening and doing her best to process what she was hearing. Maybe as she learned more, some sort of pattern to the attack would emerge- but from what Shiloah had told her, targets seemed to be all over the map.

Oddly though, they were _specific_ targets and not a saturation bombardment as with the Zentraedi Holocaust that nearly wiped life from the face of the Earth.

This struck Weitzel soundly, and even in her distracted state she realized that maybe this _was_ the pattern

Weitzel's mind, zipping from one thought to the next, recognized that as heavy as her GOOD bag felt to her- that she was missing something.

Something important.

Weitzel tore herself free of Shiloah's grasp and darted the mere five running paces back to her office, the general's profanity (also a rarity) following her all the way. She was in her office, had snatched the gym bag of security violations off her desk and was returning up the hall without having broken stride.

Almost as a shield to the anger she saw in Shiloah's face, she raised the bag in an explanatory fashion as she neared him.

"We might-."

The world heaved beneath Weitzel's feet, and she was certain for a split second that she had died. Only there was a roaring noise and a rush of air before she was hit from all sides by an extreme weight and force that seemed to have ambushed her under the cover of smothering darkness.

Two craters, one in mid-town Yellowstone City and the other near the city limits had appeared where city blocks of buildings had stood. Molten glass boiled in calderas formed by particle beam blasts, and the first clouds of dust and smoke were beginning to ride a column skyward to form sooty mushrooms.

In radial patterns around the rising clouds, buildings slouched away from the points of impact and under the mass of super-heated air, fires began spring up as glittering dots on a darkened cityscape.

 **UES** _ **Hyperion**_ **, The Caribbean Sea**

Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura "Takeo" Kusunoki watched the choreography of flight deck combat operations play out around him with timing and precision that would have made a Moscow Ballet production of _Swan Lake_ look clumsy by comparison.

This was a far more serious production though.

Aircraft handlers and weapons crews met and merged their charges with perfect timing as elevators brought Valkyries up from the hangar deck directly below.

Engines started and pilots moved tons of war bird and munitions by the skill of flight deck directors who guided the aircraft by light baton through paths in the crowded deck whose margins were measured in mere centimeters.

 _Hyperion'_ s deck shuddered noticeably as the steam-driven piston on #3 Catapult hurled a bulky A-9C variant of the service staple Adventurer II 50 meters along the run of its track building the speed required to generate the lift for the attack aircraft to slip the bonds of earth.

As the concrete thrust deflector (composed as such to prevent warping or melting) settled back into flush alignment with the deck, Takeo could see the last of the carrier's attack aircraft lumbering into the sky under the weight of their loads. Once at designated altitude, they would top off their fuel tanks from their first cousins, the CA-9E refuelers that had been the first to leave the carrier's deck in order of battle. They would then rally and assemble into their squadrons and be vectored toward the fight by _Hyperian_ 's Combat Direction Center.

The Valkyries of the carrier's air wing, the "cutting edge" of the sword, were actually last to leave the deck. Free of the need to refuel at intervals that were not measured in months or years, and with vastly superior speed to the larger, heavier Adventurer IIs, the fighters could easily catch up to, overtake, and take lead position to the attack component of the mission package.

There was no shame cast on the Adventurer IIs or their crews for their comparative sluggishness- they were not thoroughbreds, but rather the draft horses or pack mules if one was to apply a war horse analogy. What they did that a Valkyrie could not was to nearly double their own dry weight with ordinance and deliver it on target at range.

The work of the Valkyries was more glamorous at an uneducated glance, but upon closer examination it was clear that the sleek fighters were there to defend their lumbering relatives into combat, and to mop up what might remain after they had done their work.

Kusunoki eased his fighter forward under the direction of the aircraft director, the seaman's slightest motion with his light batons translating into movements of the fighter toward the catapult shuttle that had returned to starting position on its track.

As _Oka_ 's forward gear hitch was mated to the catapult shuttle, the pilot glanced off to starboard to see _Atlas_ 's silhouette on the light-enhanced, green sea and against the lighter green sky. At intervals of several seconds, she like _Hyperion_ was using all four of her primary catapults to get her wing aloft. Somewhere to port, _Phoebe_ was doing the same, and within another five minutes the carriers of the battle group would be devoid of aircraft.

A catapult officer raised an erasable board with the Valkyrie's take-off weight scripted clearly for Kusunoki's concurrence. This weight was used to set the pressure in the steam catapult to achieve the necessary velocity for a successful "shot". Too much pressure and the catapult would tear the Valkyrie's forward landing gear out from under the airframe. Too little would result in a "cold cat", and more than likely a long swim in the Caribbean Sea.

The weight of a Valkyrie with any given ordinance package was a known value though, and a figure etched into the memory of pilots and catapult officers alike. Kusunoki nodded his approval without hesitation.

The catapult officer gave the pilot the "power-up" signal, prompting Kusunoki press his throttles forward to the stops. _Oka_ shook and strained against the catapult from her own power as her thrust washed into the raised deflector behind her.

To starboard, beyond _Atlas_ and screened by the bulk of her hull, the sky lit in a lighter green that was a tempered enhancement by Kusunoki's night vision system. The pale green haze seemed to rise from the sea like a dense fog, outlining _Atlas_ in sharp contrast of light and dark. Radiant clusters of stars rose above the carrier leaving glittering trails in their wake.

 _Missiles._

And not just missiles, but by their angle of ascent. Kusunoki realized instantly that they were Ballista missiles from the battle group's cruisers and destroyers- launched to engage enemy _space cruisers_ that had to be approaching medium to low orbit.

Kusunoki felt the first pang of fear, realizing how desperately exposed a sea-going aircraft carrier was on open water when seen from outer space.

The catapult officer dropped in a practiced, half-kneel, half-split to the deck as he signaled for a launch.

Takeo was slammed into the modest cushioning of his seat as the catapult fired and _Oka_ ate up the run of the track.

G-forces eased and the Valkyrie felt responsive to its controls as it built airspeed and gained altitude.

"Takeo is up.", Kusunoki said, feeling the comforting bump of his fighter's undercarriage retracting.

"Petrel One, Sunny. Climb to angels five and orbit to rally.", came the direction from flight control. The young voice was making an audible effort to maintain a calm tone, but the level of chatter around him in _Hyperion_ 's flight control area spoke of the abnormally urgent and tense nature of operations.

"Copy that, ascending to angels five.", Kusunoki replied, "Petrels, report in to rally."

"Knoxville is up!"

"Nips, up!"

"Flako is up!"

"Mongrel is up!"

Kusunoki continued to hear his pilots sounding off as he turned his fighter into the gentle, banking turn to port at the assigned rallying altitude- but he was only partially registering the roll call.

The night was moonless, but even so the cloudless sky allowed the starshine to bathe the sea below. To the naked human eye, the sea appeared dark- but as Kusunoki saw it- through night optics- the carrier battle group below seemed to be slicing through a faceted surface of glittering emerald and jade.

It would have been a meditative moment, had Kusunoki ever been one to subscribe to the meditative school of thought.

".. _I am a beautiful cherry blossom…"_

The sparkling jewel sea below brightened and then almost in the same moment darkened to near black. Kusunoki's first impression was that his night optics had failed at the most inopportune time one could have chosen- only…

Only they hadn't failed- they were working perfectly.

And his field of view hadn't gone completely to black in that nanosecond that seemed to stretch under the heightened awareness of adrenaline and fear. Pillars of light danced for a moment in the black, connecting the heavens and the sea.

Kusunoki knew instantly what the pillars of light were, and that his night optics had dimmed the image he was seeing to preserve his eyesight against the intense light of energy weapons fire.

" _-Brace!-._ "

The single word and warning was all that Kusunoki could manage before the shockwave rolled over- no, not over, but _through_ him.

 _Oka_ bounced violently- worse than the hardest carrier landing that Kusunoki had ever experienced. Violent to the point that Kusunoki was certain he could feel the airframe flex beneath him and that the weapons-laden wings would snap off at the junction box- the pressure wave of a great explosion rolled over him, followed by a slightly less jarring series of aftershocks.

Before he was consciously aware of it, Kusunoki had used his HUD's artificial horizon to level his pitch and roll. It registered also with him that his altitude had leapt nearly two thousand feet.

But _Oka_ , he, and a sky full of blast-tossed aircraft had held together and were still aloft.

"- _Holy shit- they got the boat!"_ , someone- a familiar voice that Kusunoki could not fix to a face in that moment of fading shock said.

The squadron leader searched the sea that had been vividly textured in starlight only a moment before to find that what he could see of it was as flat and smooth as pane glass.

A cloud had settled on- or after a moment's observation seemed to be rising from the sea like an artic fog. Only this was steam from the great and sudden heating of seawater.

Out of the swirling, amorphous cloud, a form of substance and recognizable shape seemed to rise up like the deck of a drawbridge rising on its hinge. The _Hyperion_ 's bow rose and swayed up through the cloud of steam that was beginning to shrink and collapse into its self. The leading edge of the flight deck and the way it sloped down through the curve of the ship's prow to the bulbous bow gave the vessel's familiar shape a new form in Kusunoki's eyes. It looked to the pilot like an accusatory finger jutting from a clenched fist pointed to the heavens as the forward half of the great ship settled into the sea where it had been severed amidships.

The stern made a brief appearance through the cloud of steam, its rudders the size of houses fixed at the center position as the massive screws spun at high revolutions- still trying to drive the carrier.

The bank of steam-fog swallowed both ends of _Hyperion_ as it continued to collapse on itself until it to seemed to dissipate onto and be absorbed back into the sea that had already regained its texture of swells and waves.

And the boat was gone.

Looking across the sea, at every point his eyes could reach- Kusunoki could see no signs of the carrier battle group that had been in active sortie only moments before.

There was no sign it had ever been there- not a trace.

Knoxville broke the silence within the Story Petrels.

Her voice was understandably shaky, but not panicked.

"Takeo- what now?"

Kusunoki's response was immediate, and shockingly blunt- even to him.

There were few options to have to decide between.

"We find the war-."

 **14 Km North of Brasilia**

" _CONTACT LEFT!_ "

Leaves were still cascading down from the trees of the scattered groves from the force of the blast that had rippled the air and rolled the earth beneath Lt Whilite and his platoon in their dug-in observation positions. Whilite had not seen the particle beam weapon strike to the south, but had seen the brief illumination and shadows it had cast, and had felt the brief sting of its radiance on the exposed skin of the back of his neck.

The resonating thunderclap had followed seconds later, sending birds into flight, animals scampering from their dens. The tremble had not left the air when the first reports of automatic weapons fire split the following silence and tracers began to zip through the air.

The first incoming shots were speculative- probing.

Malcontent guards, their warrior senses honed and telling them that they were being and had been observed for some time stitched with fire ground and foliage where they themselves might have hidden to watch the Zentraedi encampments.

Most of the phantom targets were poorly chosen, and threatened nothing but leaves and brush. Some guesses were better. Eventually, a burst passed too close to someone to be taken for panic fire, and a reply came.

It took seconds for the night to transform from a quiet tension to a rapidly escalating brawl.

Between the perimeter guards of the malcontent camp and the Ranger and ASC observation positions, a firefight could have easily stabilized and resolved.

As the _rest_ of the malcontent camp quickly roused and took up arms-.

" _Byerly!_ ", Whilite called to his ranking sergeant over the clatter of rifle fire from the holes around him. The radio headset carried his words the twenty meters to the hole that the staff sergeant occupied, but Whilite's own ears were dulled from the rising noise around him and he needed to be heard.

" _Collapse all squads back to fallback position! NOW!"_

The call to withdraw was not cowardice, nor was it Whilite's.

Captain Nguyen had sent the order over PICS as the first shots were being fired. Echo Company had shadowed the malcontents north on orders to observe and as a result were armed and equipped to move fast and light. They were capable of staging a formidable fight if required, but not for any great duration- and certainly not against a force of Zentraedi as large as the one now organizing against them.

It was better to disengage and withdraw. Once contact was broken and evasion made, Echo Company could begin to shadow the malcontents again.

But first they would have to break contact and withdraw.

" _Ranger- on your right!"_

The words were scarcely completed when SSgt Byerly landed in Whilite's already fully-occupied foxhole in the same crouch she'd run to the position in. With her helmet visor down to make use of the night optics system, and with the chin strap and radio mike in place there was little showing of her cherub-like features to identify her- but Whilite found he could identify most of his command by their unique movements and mannerisms. It was one of those inexplicable abilities that only came from time in the field under duress.

"Top, we need to be moving _now!_ ", Whilite shouted down into Byerly's ear, "We're probably a minute from a soaking steel rain!"

Whilite was certain that between the rifle shots of the two Rangers who had been in the hole with him when the fight had started, and over the shrill whine of shocked eardrums, that he could hear artillery shells screeching in to the pre-sighted coordinates that would have them bursting over the center of the malcontent encampment.

"Not likely, El-Tee.", Byerly replied, holding her head close enough to Whilite's ear to thump helmets, "We can't raise Homestead on any of the tac-bands. I wouldn't count on shit from Brasilia."

Whilite hadn't even checked the traffic on the tactical frequencies that linked Echo Company and the JOC, "Homestead", in Brasilia. Those communications were Captain Nguyen's responsibility.

The energy weapon strikes to the south suddenly clicked for the lieutenant. On a basic level it had registered instantly that Brasilia had been hit, directly or indirectly. Now though, all of the implications began to bubble to the surface in Whilite's brain.

The artillery cover that Echo Company had planned on keeping the enemy pinned- _in case withdrawal was necessary_ -.

Gone.

Helicopter extraction from any of a half dozen pre-determined evacuation LZs-.

Gone.

Even the prospect of re-arming and resupply-.

Whilite shook the thought for more immediate and pressing concerns- like surviving long enough to have to worry about long-term survival.

The call of "contact left" and the subsequent exchanges of fire between Ranger positions and malcontents said that the porous line of observation positions was already being penetrated by malcontents- either knowingly or inadvertently.

Withdrawing from a position in the midst of one's enemies was far messier than pulling out ahead of them.

"-Doc Lancing's getting two of ours ready to move, sir, then we'll-.", Byerly continued before Whilite cut her short.

"Who's hit?"

"No one- Cochran and Preston were lookin' at Brasilia when the dittos lit it up, sir-. They're blind, temporarily- Doc _thinks_ -."

Whilite nodded his understanding-. Two blind men were a liability, but not a crippling one- it could be managed.

"Let's move then-. Displace Third Squad and have `em run point to fallback position. Blow the Claymores and withdraw by fire teams in a loose column on the double-quick. –I'm going to need our SAW teams to give us some distance and time to maneuver-."

Byerly bounced her head affirmatively, "Got it- I'll see to it. Just make sure you don't shoot us when we come tumblin' in."

Captain Nguyen snapped shut the cover of the PICS interface strapped to his left forearm. It was of minimal use to him now in commanding Echo Company.

All feeds from and connections to Homestead were down. _Down_ being the term Nguyen forced himself to use, as _dead_ had more ominous overtones.

InfoLink was still up and operational, but as disquieting as the absence of Homestead on the network had been, Nguyen had found that the chatter and traffic on the higher command bands and data-sharing spaces had been far more grave and disturbing.

The "attack" was not localized to Brasilia- or to the continent even.

Units all over the world, even off-world were clearly grappling with similar and in many cases more severe predicaments than the one Nguyen was trying to get his head around now.

This meant, undoubtedly and to one degree or another- the Panama Canal. It was a major project for the Corps of Engineers, and had substantial defense forces in place-. But it was also a clear and tantalizing target for any large scale-.

Nguyen forced the thought from his mind.

Khoa would be fine.

Echo Company was _his_ responsibility.

But clearly- Echo Company was on its own for now.

There were greater concerns for the RDF than the bringing in safely of a single company.

-And for that matter- bringing in safely _where_?..

A succession of pops, deeper but otherwise not unlike a chain of firecrackers going off rose over the ascending exchange of automatic weapons fire some thirty-plus meters from the foxhole that had been set up as the company CP.

Claymore II anti-personnel mines.

This was the stunning blow needed to make a break from the malcontents.

Around him, the command post had "closed shop" as it were in seconds, shutting down and slinging C3 equipment within seconds of Nguyen's orders to withdraw.

Sergeant Major MacDonald was crouched nearby awaiting the "go" word to attach the CP staff to 1st Platoon and make the controlled dash to the fallback position, 500 meters south.

And it _was_ time to go before the distasteful thought of running became the more distasteful reality of being overrun.

"Let's go, Mac.", Nguyen said simply, adjusting his helmet slightly and drawing his rifle to his chest for the movement to the rear.

The dull and hollow reports of grenade launchers and the following explosions told Nguyen that his units at the forward edge, now about to become the rear of his movement, were breaking up the malcontent forces that were forming up to pursue- another temporary "stalling" effort.

MacDonald pointed urgently to his right trouser and armor covered cheek, saying, "Keep it in sight-. No shooting unless you have to. We'll choose the place to fight later."

Half the CP staff followed the sergeant major from the hole at brief intervals. Nguyen was out next with the rest of his staff behind.

The night was remarkably clear except for the smudge of smoke rising over Brasilia to the south that blotted out the stars as it rose and drifted. At other points in the heavens and reaching down to the horizon, streaks of light- orbital gunfire- made regular appearances without sign of reply.

Staff Sergeant Byerly had somehow found an "alternate" position identified by the platoon's recon and quartering force earlier that day. When she had been shown it and had walked away in daylight, she had found it difficult to fix on with a rearward glance. The prospect of finding it at night, under fire had seemed questionable. But at that time, hours ago- _ages_ ago- the need for the position had been remote to slight at best.

But now she had found it- and more importantly, a second rifleman, Gordon, and 3rd Squad's SAW team. Glass, the assistant gunner whose modest frame and weight seemed perpetually doubled in the field with the bulk of the ammunition drums and spare gun barrels he carried for the squad automatic weapon was still remarkably fleet of foot despite his load. This was both fortunate and necessary to keep up with Franco who was not significantly taller than the MG-3 that he seemed to heft with as little difficulty as if it were an assault rifle.

Byerly scanned the frontal area of her position through night vision looking for the landmarks that defined her primary direction of fire for the SAW. Within the PDF, the MG-3 she was positioned with would create an interlocking field of fire with the team from 4th Platoon that was preparing similarly in a slight break in a low hill forty meters east that the staff sergeant was able to mark by a low, lop-sided bush. To stray too far right of the PDF….

"Your arc of fire is going to be between ten and one-.", Byerly instructed Franco between gulps of breath that came naturally with a racing heart and a 50/50 blood-to-adrenaline mix ratio. She heard Franco setting the stance of his weapon's bi-pod in the darkness as Glass laid out two, 50-round ammunition drums that could be easily fed to the gun's ravenous appetite once firing commenced. Byerly all the while worked by touch to fold out the leg spikes of her last Claymore II mine that she anchored facing the enemy just below the crest of the rise on which she and the other three Rangers were positioned.

"-Don't drift right of two or we'll be shooting on 4th Platoon-. Got it?"

"-Got it, Sarge- _y'know we've done this before..._ "

Byerly nudged the gunner's shoulder with the stock of her rifle, musing, "Yeah, really? Keep up the good work, don't get yourself shot on the move when we displace, and maybe I'll let you do it again-."

"Any chance of a raise with that?", Glass asked feeling his way around the SAW for anything that could possibly snag or encumber Franco's movements.

"Keep dreaming, Ranger."

"Contact left.", Private Gordon whispered , his cheek nestled in against the familiar stock of his rifle. By day, the small quick-sight screen would have been up, adjusting the "death dot" to account for range and wind. By night, with his helmet's visor down, it was cumbersome to use and unnecessary as the sight was integrated into the helmet's optics. Conceivably Glass could have shot from the hip with as much accuracy as in a rifleman's prone position- but training still emphasized proper form despite the benefits of technology.

The "target", one of a pair- clearly the point element of a probe- was a Zentraedi male of admirable stature in whose grip an ever-formidable AK-47 looked like a child's toy.

"I'm on the lead-.", Gordon said, flipping the safety catch of his weapon off and verifying that the fire selector was in the single-shot position.

"I've got his friend.", Byerly replied at barely a whisper as she trained her rifle, keeping the laser dot fixed on a second malcontent warrior's center body mass.

"Wait for it, Gordon-."

Byerly's order to wait was understood by the junior Ranger without need of explanation. When they were uncertain of an enemy lying in wait, or of traps set in their path it was customary for Zentraedi to have a warrior precede a probing element. The fate of that warrior was understood to be irrelevant when weighted against the warriors who would be saved when the "volunteer" triggered an ambush or booby-trap intended for the probing force.

Perhaps against dumb mines, or trigger-happy, green, militia it was a tactic that paid off in warriors saved, but Byerly and any Ranger who had muddied their boots in "The Zone" knew to be patient.

The wait was never long.

"Ditto squad moving across our ten.", Franco observed, his breathing becoming very controlled like a sniper's before a precision shot rather than a SAW gunner readying to deliver a hail of fire. The practice was taught to both and served each equally in the execution of their duties.

Byerly quietly cursed those most annoying of Zentraedi qualities as she was seeing it now- discipline in combat and situational awareness.

Yes, the malcontents had sent the pair of spoilers forward in hope of provoking a premature attack- but as the pair of warriors advanced across the small, open field the following probe force was not accepting the invitation to join them. They were _expecting_ an attack from the Ranger rear guard and might be suspecting that this was where that attack was to come, Byerly surmised.

Smart- but frustrating to the staff sergeant who was faced with the possibility that the Zentraedi probe might sidestep her ambush.

 _Wait, wait, wait- wait._

Byerly was calculating the answer would come in a number of seconds. The lead pair of malcontents was crossing through her PDF at the twelve o'clock position and beginning to pass right of center. The same limitations on letting fire stray too far to the right that she had imposed on Franco and Glass applied to she and Gordon as well. She didn't want a stray of her rounds finding 4th Platoon anymore than she wanted one of theirs finding her.

The Zentraedi probe was still holding, just inside the tree line and in perfect observing position to watch the field. They would not be lured into a trap.

Maybe they could be drawn into a fight.

Well- rear guarding actions had never won a war to Byerly's knowledge anyway….

"Drop `em.", Byerly said, using the last of the breath in the statement to coincide with the gentle squeeze of her trigger finger.

The M-35 gave a firm kick into Byerly's shoulder and the chest of the warrior she'd been tracking exploded in a pulpy spray as the well-placed SCAP round found its mark. A second round fired from 4th Platoon's position struck the same warrior as Byerly's round spun him. The second SCAP sent an arm tumbling free of the rest of the mutilated warrior's mass before it crumpled into a heap beneath the growth of field grasses.

Byerly had been aware of Gordon's warrior going down as well- but her attention had been elsewhere-. To the Zentraedi squad halted in the light cover of the woods.

The night whose calm had returned briefly exploded again with a reply from the grove to Byerly's left.

A plume of flame erupted from the MG-3's muzzle with each second-long burst fired by the gunner, illuminating the position and the area all around. The MG-3 had the capability to have its rate of fire adjusted by combining varying standard bolts and recoil springs- and at some point Franco had clearly merged the components needed to yield a high rate of fire.

Shell casings flew and rained searing brass around Franco and Glass as the machinegun devoured ammunition in gulps whose reports were so rapid that individual shots merged into short, continuous roars.

The psychological effect of the crew-operated "dragon" was not lost on the malcontents who had started to push from the grove of trees into the open under the cover from their own fire.

Franco's first burst stitched a group of three across the center mass and threw them to the ground as though they had been caught in perfect tackles by invisible linemen.

Their comrades, not eager to meet the same end and having been given the split second needed to develop a healthy fear of the MG-3 dove into the high grass.

"Franco- eleven-.", Glass yelled into the gunner's dulled ear, acting as much as a spotter now as he monitored the gun's consumption of ammunition and readied a second drum to replace the first when it went dry.

Franco redirected the muzzle of the weapon, scanning for the target alluded to.

A head and shoulders was rising over a dense stand of grass, a weapon clearly shouldered. Crazy-brave, or just crazy- the warrior fired a retaliatory burst that from the muzzle flash, Franco was sure would split the sights on his weapon before striking him squarely between the eyes.

Rifle rounds thudded the hillside near enough to the gun position to kick up dirt onto the Rangers- and far closer than Franco had thought possible from a snap-shot.

The MG-3 blazed again and shredded the stand of grass and the warrior within it.

Across the clearing, 4th Platoon's MG-3 lit the darkness with three successive bursts. The fusillade was directed into the stand of trees to Byerly's left and through a shower of splintered wood, bark, and leaves the staff sergeant caught a glimpse of a leg going high into the air, like an impossible Rockettes' kick as rounds threw the owner to the earth.

The sight was clear because the target had been close- bordering on _uncomfortably close_ \- and the same glance showed that other dark masses- other Zentraedi warriors- sinking and rising, ducking and weaving through the trees- closing.

"Echo Four, Echo Three-.", Byerly said into her radio mke, hoping her counterpart in the other gun position could hear more clearly than she in the pause between machinegun bursts, "Recommend falling back to next position- over."

"Copy and concur, Three- over."

"After my next burst. Cover our movement with grenades and displace. Over."

"Copy-. After your next burst. Over."

Byerly found that her gun crew was already anticipating the move.

Glass had already policed the ammunition drum he had laid out to reload the gun, and was now holding his rifle at the ready to help cover the withdrawal to the next position.

Byerly smacked the side of Franco's helmet to get his attention, and barked, "Put their heads down!"

Franco's acknowledgment was an arcing spray of bullets that crossed over multiple points in the field, clipping tufts of grass to an even level. No specific target, but a warning to all of what reward could await the brave.

The last casing had not struck the ground when Byerly nudged Gordon for their part in the withdrawal from the gun position.

"Put yours thirty meters out!"

Staff sergeant and private rose to a knee each, shouldering their rifles and with a hollow _pop_ from each M-35's launcher, sent a grenade downrange. The report of grenade launchers from 4th Platoon's gun position mirrored those from Byerly and Gordon, and within a moment the air split with a rapid succession of four blasts. Flashes in the stand of trees and in the open field popped like photo strobes- dirt and clumps of long grass joined at the roots were hurled up in fine clouds of dust where grenades had gone off.

" _Displace!_ ", Byerly yelled, rising to a crouch on both feet and covering the field with her rifle, " _Second position!"_

Heads and shoulders were already beginning to bob up in the field like body surfers broaching in sea swells as Byerly's SAW crew moved with haste in the direction that Echo Company had withdrawn to minutes earlier. The Staff Sergeant took one of the heads at forty meters with a quick double-pull of the trigger.

4th Platoon's gun joined in the suppressing fire and Zentraedi warriors flattened themselves into the earth to earth to escape the spray.

" _Go!_ ", Byerly said, nudging Gordon too withdrew.

The staff sergeant felt Gordon slip by her and would have joined him after a moment's pause to cover, but was fixed by the number of malcontents she could see just beyond the kill box, in the trees and beyond. There was a cohesion to their rise and advance that surpassed any collective, precision military maneuver- it was the joining of individuals into a single organism or force.

Byerly froze for a moment, recognizing that what fixed and held her was panic.

It was not a fear of death- this was omnipresent in The Control Zone and a sensation that Byerly knew well. This jolting terror was what she suspected one would feel to see an avalanche or tsunami crashing toward you. It was the panic of facing a force that one had no power to avert or contest.

Staff Sergeant Byerly was irrationally certain for an infinite nanosecond that she was looking at the leading edge of a great tide rolling toward Brasilia- and Echo Company, 4th Rangers was in its path.

Byerly had regained her composure quickly and had retreated toward the pre-established secondary firing position after Private Gordon at a full run before any of the advancing Zentraedi had seen her. Her legs were carrying her faster than she remembered them ever having carried her before and Byerly was hopeful that it was in the right direction as the secondary position's _exact_ location was suddenly fuzzy to her now.

It was enough to be ahead of the tide- and also she was calculating with what cognitive powers she had left to her.

.. _Ten Mississippi…_

 _..Eleven Mississippi…_

 _..Twelve Mississippi..._

 _Oh, fuck it…._

Byerly raised the remote detonator above her head with the dramatic flair of an Olympic torch bearer bringing the flame into the final stretch.

Byerly flipped the safety off and gave the trigger grip three quick squeezes.

The staff sergeant was rewarded by the unmistakable blast of the Claymore II antipersonnel mine she had left behind at the first firing position. If her timing had been right, the leading Zentraedi of the swarm would have been almost on top of the mine. Even if her timing had been off, the directional mine would still have fired in their midst.

A nasty little surprise from 3rd Platoon.

-A Christmas present to those on the "naughty" list.

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

Were the aliens simply accepting defeat?

Commander Iyos was skeptical, and rightfully so based on the dazzling if not short-lived resistance the 7th Grand Army's vanguard force had encountered with the first waves of their assault.

The well-conceived constellation of space stations encircling the alien world at all latitudes had put the first Te'Dak Tohl units back on their heels before decimating them with waves of impressively lethal anti-warship missiles. It had only been after the exhausting of these weapons that following squadrons of Te'Dak Tohl scouts and destroyers had been able to gain forward momentum again- cracking this protective shell of space stations as it were.

Even now as the fight for high orbit continued and fighter and mecha units were infiltrating the mid-regions of the planet's orbital space, there were signs that the micronian aliens were determined to provide a spirited resistance. Every space station that had been on the illuminated side of the world at the time of attack's beginning put up an admirable defiant effort before being pulverized by numerically superior Te'Dak Tohl warships and their gun batteries.

Ground-based defense positions, gun and missile, had fatally surprised a handful of Zentraedi commanders- but with little significant effect on the preparing of orbital space for the main landing force as a whole. And these ground installations had been quickly pinpointed and neutralized.

What surprised Commander Iyos- what disappointed her in some ways was the lack of a significant alien fleet presence in the defense of their homeworld. Less than a dozen alien ships, including two presumably commandeered _Thuverl Salan_ Class destroyers had been detected by the Te'Dak Tohl vanguard after de-folding. These though had wisely not lingered to fight, but rather had skirted the planet for cover as quickly as their drive systems could propel them.

Iyos recognized that campaigns or even battles were not fought for the benefit of a warrior's personal glory- not at _her_ level of the command structure anyway. Though those moments did have a tendency to sometimes present themselves, and it was for that reason that Iyos had allowed herself to quietly desire an abundance of warships to engage in clearing the way for the 7th Grand Army's fleet.

But there had been nothing remotely close to even the most minimal intelligence estimates of what the aliens _should_ have been able to deploy in the way of warships.

This had led Iyos to the question that she could not dismiss-.

Were the aliens simply accepting defeat?

Regardless of whether the aliens were accepting the hopelessness of their situation, there was the one other critical element that great pains had been made to plan for in developing the plans for attack and landing. It had been the one element that Supreme General Krymina had shown the greatest concern over, and perhaps the only element that caused her apprehension.

Breetai.

Where was the traitor of legendary stature?

Where was arguably the greatest asset the aliens had available to them with perhaps the exception of Zor's Battle Fortress itself?

Where was Breetai?

So certain had Supreme General Krymina been of massive fleet action that every specialized action group, every task force- no matter how specific and critical their role to the planetary landing operations- had an equally specific rapid re-deployment role should Supreme General Breetai appear.

He had not though.

No massive armada had risen like a cloud of destruction over the horizon to square off against the Te'Dak Tohl.

No strategically disbursed succession of alien battle groups had folded into the battlespace like Invid staging an ambush at grappling range.

Not a single, respectable, ship of the line had appeared to fire its guns in anger.

Commander Iyos was well aware that Breetai was neither a coward nor a fool, and that any action he took or chose not to take was for a well founded reason.

She also knew that on the far side of the alien world Breetai had a Robotech Factory and all of its formidable weapons at his disposal- and that it was rapidly approaching the planet's terminator.

When it crossed into night, the balance of power in the battlespace would shift instantly and it would be the Te'Dak Tohl vanguard facing the fate it had and still was doling out to the alien space stations of the defense constellation.

Commander Iyos felt the time when she would want to be anywhere else in the universe rapidly approaching.

Supreme General Krymina was no more of a fool than Breetai, and arguably more aggressive.

Commander Iyos could see the movement of the 7th Grand Army's fleet at maximum speed toward Earth.

While it was too early to tell exactly what tactic Krymina would apply, she was already deploying her units into multiple battle lines- perhaps to engage Breetai's Robotech Factory from one principle direction at many angles, or maybe to encircle the planet and strike from many directions. In either case, it was clear that Supreme General Krymina had come to this system to fight and she was prepared to press the issue.

She would have her fleet action against Breetai.

The only question that there was no way of answering except for entering into battle was, what was Breetai planning?

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

" _MCS on deck!_ ", the Chief of the Watch called out over the CDC as General Breetai and his entourage of staff and support officers entered the cavernous compartment to the rumble of their own footsteps on deck plating.

The surviving data feeds from every United Earth military and most civilian Ministry asset flowed into this compartment for the purpose of being able to analyze and assess any situation- even one as dire as the one that was rapidly developing. Holographic viewscreens that would not have fit into the spaces afforded by even the largest cinema house hung weightless in the air around "The Hub" at the center of the compartment. What they showed was a localized devastation of strategic military and population centers on Earth, while another three-dimensional display showed the approach of a massive Zentraedi fleet toward Earth.

Wars could be directed from this room, and it was highly likely that this would indeed happen.

Admiral Alestair McManus did not shoulder the burden of fighting a war for The United Earth alone, but as commanding officer of the GS-95 Robotech Factory, its operations and resources- it was a burden that he was shouldering more of than many with the order having been given to execute Contingency Plan Exodus.

Tier 1 Personnel were all now either aboard or within minutes of being aboard. Once all "T-1s" were positively accounted for, the minimal requirement to allow the GS-95 to withdraw to a secondary location was met.

Optimally, time would be allowed to bring aboard Tier 2 and 3 personnel, who were also in varying stages of transit from Earth's surface to "Walhalla"- but redundant personnel for the roles they played were a fixture aboard the GS-95 already and "T-2s" and "3s" could be left behind if circumstances dictated. That call was McManus's to make, and he would- but circumstances did not dictate the abandonment of people in the face of a Zentraedi onslaught.

Not at the moment- not yet.

Normal formalities were ignored without hesitation by both Breetai and McManus as the Military Chief of Staff joined the facility commander at The Hub.

A smaller-scale version of the medium-range tactical display hung directly over the center holographic table of the command post. Earth stood near to one interior side of the cube of laser light, while Mars stood at the opposite side. Great masses of light, composed of individual dots- each indicating a single Zentraedi warship- were moving in a coordinated fashion and at high speed from the space beyond Mars toward Earth. Even so, the distance to be traveled was so great that it would be nearly a half-hour before the first elements of the Zentraedi armada was within striking distance of Earth.

"Things could be worse, I'm certain General-.", McManus said bleakly, "-But I'm at a loss to say _how_ exactly."

A chronometer was counting down the minutes and seconds until the Zentraedi reached maximum engagement range and while completely appropriate and functional in its presence- it did seem to drive McManus's point home.

"The answer to that is simple, Admiral- it could be _worse_ if the Zentraedi were to raze our world to the ground."

President Valterven had made his entry to the CDC and approach to The Hub with even less ceremony than Breetai had only moments earlier. This did not equate to a willingness to stand by the side and not engage though. Valterven had ordered Exodus, but was fully within his prerogative to cancel that order at any time, or to direct Breetai and the military apparatus as he saw appropriate.

"-The critical issue is, how we prevent that from happening?"

Valterven's attention shifted from establishing a guiding principle to gathering what information had been gleaned and become available since his last briefing by the MCS.

"General Breetai, what is the situation presently?"

Breetai faced the President and was concise in his response.

"The situation has not changed, Mr. President, with the exception of the gravity becoming clearer. We are looking at a Zentraedi force that is larger than we had initially speculated-. Larger than I would have believed possible, and certainly larger than what intelligence estimates have deemed possible."

"This is significant because it suggests to me a level of organization and support not indicative of a rogue, surviving commander of Dolza's Fleet."

Valterven nodded his understanding of what was being said, but was quick to question a point that was not in agreement with facts that he thought he knew.

"What other force would there have been beside Dolza's, General? My understanding was that all Zentraedi forces, whether male or female, fell under his command as appointed by The Robotech Masters."

"That is true to the very best of my knowledge.", Breetai affirmed, "And Dolza never gave me reason to think that this was not the case-. However, The Robotech Masters are not an entity known for their transparency, nor for their complete disclosure of the truth."

"Then you are saying that The Robotech Masters may have created and concealed a Zentraedi force outside of Dolza's command?", Valterven asked, his tone laced with both skepticism and accusation.

"I am saying that while not probable, it is _possible._ ", Breetai conceded, "But I stand by my statement that the situation has not changed fundamentally. We were not in a position to fight this battle coming to us when we thought the Zentraedi force was smaller, and we definitely are not in a position to contest a force of the size that we are now realizing."

"As for the immediate safety of the civilian population-.", Breetai motioned toward the viewscreen displaying a world map with overlays depicting major cities, industrial areas, and military installations.

"-The planetary damage has been extremely limited given the size of the force now in high and middle orbit. These Zentraedi appear interested in leaving Earth intact- for the time being at least."

"For the _time being?_ ", Valterven stammered, "That's hardly reassuring given-."

A communications officer, greatly outranked by even the lowest ranking officer currently standing around The Hub interrupted with enough conviction to secure the attention of the top civilian and military leadership.

The young man addressed his commanding officer as appropriate, initially saying over Valterven, "Admiral McManus- we're receiving a transmission in the clear _from_ the Zentraedi force. –It's hailing and addressing General Breetai specifically."

Though he did not have to, McManus consulted Breetai with a glance and upon receiving the MCS's consent replied to the communications officer, "Put it on with a translation running in sync."

"Aye sir, coming up on Screen Four now-.", the lieutenant commander said snapping his fingers in the direction of his staff who complied with the understood order.

One of the large viewscreens floating over the CDC flickered as the alien transmission was received, recoded for human technology, and was run through a real-time translation program before being projected.

The screen went from a static-speckled black to a uniform grey with the exception of an altered Zentraedi chevron at the image's center. Human eyes familiar with the traditional Zentraedi chevron that appeared gold on field of green recognized immediately that something with this symbol was changed. What had been gold was now blue, and an eye now emblazoned the chevron's center with a malevolent glare.

It was not the symbol itself that was remarkable to the humans in the CDC, but rather the reaction of their Zentraedi comrades who to the individual, including General Breetai, gave a singular gasp at the mere sight of the emblem.

Breetai's response was not lost on Valterven who now had known Breetai in a professional and to a lesser extent a social capacity for years. In that time he'd seen slight deviations from Breetai's stoic norm in almost every emotional direction- but what Valterven was reading now in the General's expression was something he had not seen before.

Fear.

No- not fear, but rather a moment of abject terror that Breetai was able to master and bring under control as the symbol on its field of grey dissolved.

"What is it, Breetai?", Valterven asked, sensing that somehow the General and the other Zentraedi on deck had suddenly come into a critical piece of knowledge that eluded their human counterparts entirely.

"What was that?"

Breetai's voice was edgy as he said, "Something not possible-."

The screen resolved to an image of a female Zentraedi officer of flawless, pale blue complexion, with coal-black that formed a groomed but unrestrained mane about her sharp features- whose piercing eyes penetrated all they crossed with their gaze. The feed being a transmission and not a bi-directional channel meant that the yet-nameless sender was not seeing the audience to whom she spoke, but the perception of all was that she was seeing into the very core of each.

The thin lips began to move rapidly forming words that were carried in the Zentraedi dialect at a reduced volume while a computer-generated approximation of ver voice delivered her words to the CDC in grammar and syntax sanitized English.

"I am Supreme General Krymina of the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl, and I am addressing Supreme General Breetai directly. The alien world will be allowed to submit to occupation without undue harm if the following conditions are met immediately."

"You will provide my command the geographical coordinates of the wreckage of Zor's Battle Fortress using the standard Zentraedi cartographical reference system."

"You will then present yourself for battle to answer for treason against The Robotech Masters and The Zentraedi Empire."

"The indigenous alien population will lay down all arms and surrender all elements of Robotechnology to my command."

"These terms are not negotiable. You have twelve standard minutes to reply with your agreement to comply with these terms on tactical frequency one."

"Failure to acknowledge this transmission or to comply with any of the terms I have identified will result in a full-scale orbital bombardment of the alien world."

"This transmission ends."

The screen resolved to the altered Zentraedi chevron again, eliciting a less pronounced start from the Zentraedi in the CDC who were clearly had braced for it this time. The screen then darkened.

"Those are hardly _terms-_.", President Valterven said to Breetai whose expression told those who knew him well enough to read his expressions that he was deep in thought, "-And I also do not trust this- _Krymina_ \- to honor her end of the proposal. We need other options in-. How long is twelve _standard minutes_?"

"Roughly thirty-five Terran minutes-.", Breetai replied, still looking removed, "The amount of time she requires to move her fleet into a position to act on her threat."

Valterven consulted the three-dimensional tactical display over the central holographic table with a glance before saying with calm urgency, "Then I need your recommendation, Breetai- _quickly._ "

Breetai's expression changed ever so slightly, but to the officers of his staff, those who had worked under him, and also to the President- the shift was significant in what it indicated. A plan was constituting in his mind, and one that the general felt had enough merit to continue to develop.

"She said that the population would be allowed to submit to _occupation_ -.", Breetai said, paraphrasing his now corporal opponent's words of a minute earlier, "They intend to stay for some time, meaning that something they want is on Earth itself."

"She also demanded Zor's Battle Fortress- _SDF-1_.", Valterven said, engaging in what he took to be Breetai's line of thinking, "She can have it- it's a useless, empty hulk. Nothing of any value remains aboard."

Breetai shook his head, "No-. She wants the Earth intact for The Invid Flower of Life-. This planet is the only one other than Opterra where we know it can survive and flourish. To make the Flower of any use however, she knows that she needs the processing equipment developed by Zor that he stowed aboard his Battle Fortress before launching it into hyperspace. That was my original charge from Dolza and The Robotech Masters- to recover this technology by recovering the ship."

"She needs _both_ the refining technology _and_ the planet for any substantial gains."

"We have already replicated that technology and process.", Valterven countered while at the same time following the MCS' thinking.

Breetai nodded, "Yes, but she does not know that."

"Then our play is to keep what she believes she needs out of her hands? That's our leverage?", Valterven clarified.

"It is not great leverage, but it may be substantial enough to hold her in check- where Earth's immediate survival is concerned at least."

Valterven showed understandable concern, "Those are long odds to gamble on, Breetai."

" _Very_ long odds.", Breetai admitted without hesitation, "But they are the odds we have to play. I think we can sweeten the pot- as card-players say- and improve our hand, so to speak."

Valterven looked at the chronometer integrated into the tactical display, "We have twenty-eight minutes to validate that hypothesis, General."

General Breetai looked directly to the communications suite whose lead had had announced Supreme General Krymina's hail.

"Get Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter on the line for me- _now._ "

 _ **SDF-3**_

"Were my orders not clear?"

Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter realized that her normal composure had left her and that the shock of the order given to her directly by General Breetai was clearly showing through.

To her defense- it _was_ an unconventional order.

"No, General-.", Hayes-Hunter replied, drawing her reservations back inside and tucking them away securely where they could not corrupt her command with her own misgivings, "Your orders were perfectly clear. We will depart immediately. We are beginning fold-jump calculations as we speak."

Breetai, his presence commanding even over a com-link, nodded to her assuringly, "This is Earth's best chance right now, Lisa. Save that fighting instinct- the time _will_ come."

"Understood, sir.", Hayes-Hunter replied.

Breetai's mouth turned up, ever-so-slightly at the corners- the closest to a smile he ever got while on duty.

Musefully, he added as a parting thought- "One ship against an armada-. You've done this before, haven't you?.."

Hayes-Hunter managed a single, joyless laugh of recognized irony, "Don't remind me."

"Godspeed then, Admiral.", Breetai said before the coded channel closed.

Hayes-Hunter found all eyes in _SDF-3_ 's Combat Direction Center to be turned to her knowing that she would execute the orders she had been given, but waiting for her to give them.

The vice admiral reached up to the intercom box over the central display console and buzzed the bridge.

"Hollenkamp.", came the response from the captain at his post.

"Status, Julian?", Hayes-Hunter asked.

"All systems are green, Admiral. External moorings clearing now. We're ready to depart."

"Clear internal moorings and put us to sea, Julian. All weapons and defensive systems to stand-by- and spin up the fold system."

"Aye, ma'am."

Hayes-Hunter glanced across the table to her husband who was for now, for all intents and purposes, just a high-ranking spectator of events. He had steeled his expression, much as she had- but in the same way that she knew he could see it in her, she saw the uncertainty behind Rick Hunter's eyes.

Borrowing Breetai's "inside joke" of gallows humor, Lisa Hayes-Hunter said flatly to the only one in the CDC who could truly and completely understand, "Seems just like old times, eh?..."

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

A line of vehicles, some military and some civilian, twenty-three deep in convoy had made the normal 30-minute drive from The High Desert Pilot's Social Club to the approach of RDF Edwards' main gate in just under ten.

While a Lakota helicopter had arrived at the bar to recover Major General Butler to base only minutes after the entire Antelope Valley including Edwards City had gone dark, the most critical personnel given the situation- the pilots- had been left to find their own way to post.

With lights out everywhere, the sprint of vehicles filled to capacity had been that much more treacherous.

By chance in the position his borrowed military land rover had been parked. Lt Col Fred Dalton had found himself leading the charge back to Edwards- much depending on his skill at driving at high-speed along darkened roads and streets to deliver the bulk of Edwards' fighter component of the composite wing back to base.

Winters sat in the passenger seat- actually strapped in by exception to his standard practice- with his .44 safetied, but resting across his lap. What real measure of utility or protection it served, he himself was unsure of- but it felt good to have within easy reach.

The squadron commander scanned the civilian and military radio bands with the rover's radio and found all of the former to be dead air beside a hiss of static. The coded and uncoded military bands on the other hand were alive- _cluttered_ even with traffic from the base and other nearby posts.

At least there was evidence that things would be in some degree of preparedness when they arrived.

"Vice" Vincenz sat strapped into the bench seat in the crew cab directly behind Winters and had somehow managed to light a cigarette whose smoke was sucked out the cracked rear window into the rover's slipstream. Piglet and Pinball occupied together the single seat at the center, and "Preacher" Wayne was fervently but serenely praying directly behind Dalton.

"Be sure to put a good word in for us, will you Preacher?", Winters said, discovering to his own surprise that he was only _half_ -joking.

Wayne did not reply though Winters was certain that he had heard him.

That was fine- it just meant that Preacher was already hard at work.

"You sober enough to fly, Jack?", Dalton asked, the question, wholly irrelevant at that moment, seeming to come out of left field.

Winters shook his head as the reduced glow of Edwards' main gate continued to grow nearer on the horizon.

"Freddy, I've never been so sober in my life."

"Me either.", Dalton concurred, "Damn if the dittos don't know how to pick the best times…"

"They're going to be fine, you know.", Winters assured Dalton, referring to his family and all of the civilians- including Rio- who had been at the bar when the attack had begun.

Roxanna had begun calmly shepherding all into the substantial cinderblock cellar that she had cajoled the Corps of Engineers to build for her just off the club's back porch. It had been completely unsanctioned, completely off the books, but with complete knowledge of the base commander- and costing Roxanna only the price of materials and a surprisingly admirable barbecue spread after.

The price and skirting of regulations seemed to be paying off this night.

"Yeah, I know.", Dalton said, not sounding as convinced as he probably had hoped to.

The main gate was approaching now. Dalton knew this by having driven to post in blackout conditions in the dark before, but never at such a high speed and with a tail of vehicles in his wake. Nerves and adrenaline made him want to keep the accelerator floored- made him want to pull into the HAS where his fighter would be waiting for him if he could.

Better judgment made Dalton ease off the gas and slow to more cautious approach as the wash of the rover's off-road lights began to illuminate the darkened gatehouse.

The angular and intentionally imposing form of the concrete gatehouse materialized in the rising light thrown by the rover's lamps. All was dark, but intentionally so as the base sustained itself with an independent, EMP-hardened power grid that was independent of the ever-fickle civilian infrastructure.

The base and the gatehouse were darkened to deprive any enemy of a clear target, or of a point of reference to identify targets in the black, Mojave Desert night.

-And _darkened_ did not equate to _deserted_ in any way.

Steel, pneumatic piston-braced barriers capable of stopping anything short of a main battle tank had been raised clear across the breadth of the road leading to the gatehouse.

Beyond the barriers, an armored fighting vehicle stood imposing watch with its top-mounted, chain-gun turret pointing out threateningly at any who might approach on the main road.

All around the gatehouse in the now-compromised darkness there was activity on a smaller and less menacing scale as well. Squat, angled steel barriers had been erected and joined in varying configurations to create covered positions for base security troops. By the light of the rover's off-road lamps, young men and women could be seen filling the sandbags to be stacked around the barriers with the ready supply of the Mojave.

Some paused to look scornfully into the light that was depriving them of the sense of security that the darkness had garnered. Others looked much like desert hares or coyotes caught off-guard on nighttime desert roads in the sudden glare of oncoming traffic- eyes glittering like polished jewels of reflected light.

Troops in Cyclone power armor rushed the leading rover, brutish energy weapons leveled and at the ready.

Dalton instinctively stomped the brake, throwing all in the crew cab forward as the rover came to a rapid stop and barely averted a massive pile-up in the train of vehicles behind it.

" _Identification, NOW!_ ", barked the soldier at the driver's door, unseen behind the closed visor of his battloid's helmet.

Dalton slowly reached into his jacket pocket, praying that habit had not failed him and that his military identification was still there. The muzzle of the energy rifle kept level with his head the whole time.

The pilot found the laminated card and lanyard and brought it out for the sentry to examine as guards were moving down the convoy with the same task of verifying identities.

The guard dropped the business end of his weapon immediately, saying as he made a motion to the gatehouse, "I'm sorry, Colonel- the base is on Delta security posture. There have been attacks on other posts."

Dalton was prepared to forgive a man who was doing his duty, but Winters was not quite as ready.

" _Attacks?- Say it isn't so!_ ", the squadron commander fumed.

The steel barrier blocking the road ahead of the land rover began to lower at the command of an unseen controller. To Dalton, it seemed an excruciatingly long process. Winters took it as an opportunity to bleed off tension with the abuse of a subordinate.

"Here's an educated guess… You'll know the enemy when you see him because he's _TWENTY METERS TALL AND BLUE!"_

As much to get away from Winters as to get the pilots to their own duty at the airfield, the guard who had challenged Dalton waved him urgently through.

The squadron XO opened the way for the procession of vehicles, accelerating powerfully enough to throw back in their seats the passengers whom he had thrown forward moments earlier in braking.

"You could have just shot the kid, Jack.", Dalton laughed, finding some delayed humor in the confrontation that they had just pulled away from, "He was just doing his job for Christ's sake."

"Don't blaspheme.", came Preacher's especially valid warning from the back seat.

"-Sorry.", Dalton apologized quickly, partially to Wayne and partially to The Almighty.

"The thought had crossed my mind.", Winters admitted as he felt around the floorboard of the cab for his pistol that had left his lap when Dalton had applied the brakes, "Circumstance precluded the option though."

The drive into Edwards' interior was faster than normal despite the number of vehicles and personnel rushing about to various points in organized chaos.

As the main avenue forked and Dalton was taking the route toward the tarmac at the edge of the Rogers Lakebed, he slowed at the unusual sight that he had become accustomed to over the past several days and had nearly forgotten.

The tent city that had sprung up on the common greens around the post hospital and an adjacent marshalling ground was chocked with civilians milling about with no clear purpose- and worse, no direction to guide them.

" _Oh shit- the civilians."_ , Dalton muttered.

The civilians who had been choppered in from organized collection points in The Outlands for medical examination, evaluation, and treatment- and for a brief period of "good will" building, shouldered by Edwards were now standing on the very edge of a bull's eye, if not on the bull's eye center itself.

Winters saw the civilians as well, but knew that Dalton with excusable vulnerability to the scene was seeing _families_.

"Nothing you can do for them outside of the cockpit, Freddy.", Winters said, balancing sympathy and urgency, "The MPs and medical staff will get them into basements, I'm sure-."

Dalton nodded, making the turn toward the airfield and leaving the jarring predicament of the civilians behind.

"Yeah."

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeo watched with a mother's guard as the lift cart that had raised the last of _Marilyn'_ s ordinance into place for attachment was towed carefully away by an all-purpose flight line tractor.

In the howl and rising heat of the idling engines of the four Valkyries housed within the HAS, weapons handlers completed their task by pulling the safety pins from missiles and carefully removing rubber protective covers from sensitive seeker heads.

Then, as quickly as they had worked, the ordinance teams vanished out through the open HAS doors from the subdued overhead lighting intended to promote low observability of the hardened aircraft shelters into the pitch of night.

No sooner than the ordinance team had departed the pilots of the prepared Valkyries entered from the adjoining corridor that linked the HAS to the locker and pre-flight building.

Senior Airmen Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim- Lyle's personal project for improving xeno-human relations through training and productive employment each ushered Vice, Skinny, and Blitz to their respective fighters to assist in strapping in while Lyle closed to join Winters for a hurried pre-flight inspection.

"Nice outfit-.", Winters commented dryly at a holler's volume into Lyle's ear to be heard over the whine of the VF-1S's twin PFR/PR-2001-B engines.

The squadron leader referred to the Level-4 MOPP suite that the plane captain, like his subordinates, wore as a mandatory part of the high-level defensive posture the base had shifted to.

"Yeah-.", Lyle yelled back as Winters tugged at one of the MAPM-7 Basilisk missiles on the tri-rail mount mated to the port wing's outer weapon station, "Ah'm still tryin' ta decide on pearls or a silver chain `fore Ah step out on the town."

"Go silver-.", Winters suggested, moving to the center station where an Asp missile launcher and two harder-hitting Fury, short-range all purpose missiles had been loaded to a second tri-rail mount, "It doesn't bring out the sallow in your complexion."

"Ya know all tha right thangs t'say to a girl!", Lyle said as Winters reached inner-most wing station and paused ever-so-briefly.

Two AMSLM-4 "Falcon" Reflex missiles were married to an L-rail contributing to the considerable droop of the Valkyrie's port wing with their substantial weight. Winters of course had trained and qualified in the use of the long range, all-purpose "genius" weapons- and had even fired two in separate, "live fire" training exercises- but had never flown into actual combat loaded with them.

Their sophisticated lethality and extreme reach- not to mention their noteworthy price tag per unit- had never been required for the policing of The Outlands.

Things had changed.

"It must be real-.", Winters admitted, giving the weapon mounted to the outside rail a tug before doing the same to the Falcon on the underslung rail, "-They're loading us for bear."

Winters was preparing to duck under the port engine to kick the GU-11 gun pod when something on the outside-mounted Falcon caught his eye- a detail that he had not picked up on a moment before but was glaring in how it stood out.

A winking "smiley face" had been drawn on the housing of the missile in thick-lined grease pencil, with the words scrawled below-

" _WELCOME TO EARTH!"_

Winters shook his head, realizing that he wasn't the only one feeling punchy at the moment.

Lyle followed Winters along the length of the gun pod mated to the underside of the Valkyrie, saying, "Tha shooter's loaded with HEAP and uranium-core rounds. Don't waste `em shootin' at beer cans!"

Winters doubled forward again for the cockpit, verifying that countermeasure packs were loaded securely into all of the dispensers just forward of the vectored thrust nozzles and tail.

Winters was into the cockpit quickly and securing his harnesses as Lyle attached air lines and Neuropilot cables to his flight suit.

The pilot felt the pins and needles of fear that he expected- but not as acutely as he thought he would have. The fear was there, beneath the surface- but more than anything he was feeling a strange invigoration that was not just the steady flow of adrenaline in his veins.

In the worst possible situation that all had hoped would never come- it was a validation of being.

"Lyle", Winters said, pulling the plane captain's ear close to his mouth so as to be sure of being heard clearly, "As soon as we push, you get your chaps into the shelter and keep your heads down! Do you hear me?!"

Lyle bobbed his head vigorously, "Yeah, don'tchya worry none!- We'll be here when'ya geyt back! You just watch yer ass out there, cowboy!"

Winters nodded the plane captain away as he secured his oxygen mask and made certain that the air was flowing. A check of stick and pedals found that the flaps and rudders were responding correctly through their full range of motion.

Lyle removed the safety pin from the pilot's ejection seat and flew down the aluminum ladder and pulled it clear of the Valkyrie's path, stooping down to jerk the tire chocks free by the lines tied to them.

Winters closed his canopy and eased the throttles forward at the beckon of an aircraft director's light batons.

"Coms-check, coms-check. Knight Hawk One is on, Joshua how do you read?"

"Joshua reads you five-by-five Knight Hawk One."

"Be a chap then and put me in the queue."

"Roger that, Knight Hawk One- stand by for runway assignment for scramble take-off with unrestricted ascent to angels six-five."

 **Low Earth Orbit**

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha throttled-back his Gnerl Fighter Pod as he put what he deemed to be a "safe" distance between himself and his base ship behind him. _Safe_ being an imprecise word, it was actually just the range at which Daehlarha felt the _Salan_ Class scout ship could dissolve in nuclear flame the way so many vessels of the vanguard force had while being survivable to he and his command of four squadrons.

Daehlarha, Te'Dak Tohl caste, feigned no affection or nostalgia for the scout vessel he left behind. He had some sympathies for the Te'Dak Tohl officers and sub-officers selected to command and lead the predominantly norghil crew- but after weeks aboard following embarkation for deployment and time spent in fold in transit to the operational area- Daehlarha's affiliation with and connection to the horrid, cramped little ship was severed.

As ecstatic as Point Lieutenant Daehlarha was in leaving the scout vessel behind, he was certain that others making the same escape were doubly so. His pilots and an equal number of Serhot-Ran shock troops had displaced crew from their barracking areas during the journey, forcing the norghil to spend their off-duty hours sleeping on mattresses in corridors and the limited decks of machinery spaces and relegating them to a select number of the ship's already sparse nutrient dispensaries and facilities. This discomfort was mild though in comparison to the two companies of Te'Dak Tohl Light Mechanized Infantry regulars who had endured similar conditions to the norghil on the ship's lower decks. Some had even improvised accommodations, berthing around their own mecha on the Transport Pods that were now shuttling them toward battle.

As Daehlarha's fighter group formed-up around him, he reflected on the indignities and discomforts required by Duty in the past weeks in perspective.

He and his pilots had endured less than desirable living conditions on a ship that despite sanitization still had wreaked of norghil- but they had survived to sortie into the execution phase of the mission that they had trained so exhaustively to prepare for.

Many Te'Dak Tohl warriors whose familiar names they would learn later had not, the point lieutenant knew.

Fate had seen he and his pilots this far and had granted them a measure of control in determining their own paths.

Daehlarha also was well aware that the severing of the bond between the _Salan_ scout now lost to the blind spot on his fighter's tail was a severing _both_ ways. The ship's commander, a point lieutenant like Daehlarha had fulfilled his obligation to the Gnerl pilots, the Serhot-Ran, and the light mechanized infantry by delivering them to within a deployable range of the correct geographic region of the alien world.

There was no going back for Point Lieutenant Daehlarha, his pilots, or any of the Te'Dak Tohl warriors so relieved to be parting ways with the scout-class vessel. The planet had been softened and prepared for them as much as could be achieved without causing damage to the delicate environment that was needed to support Supreme General Krymina's long-term goals of a sustainable supply of The Flower of Life.

It was now up to Daehlarha to clear the path to an objective on the darkened hemisphere below for the landing of Point Lieutenant Yaris's Serhot-Ran and supporting mechanized infantry.

They would take the objective and hold it until the main landing force arrived to exploit the spearhead, or they would die in the process. This was the understood role and peril of being a path-finder force.

For his part, Point Lieutenant Daehlarha was confident and resolute that he would see the alien sun rise over a taken objective and join the next battle of the campaign in the company of an overwhelming Te'Dak Tohl force.

First though, his immediate mission.

"Squadrons One and Two on point, Three left and Four right to flanking positions." Daehlarha ordered, "Call out enemy fighters as you make contact, but do _not_ engage stragglers. Conserve your weapons for legitimate challengers-. We'll get Yaris's force to ground and _then_ perform a radial sweep."

Element leaders acknowledged the familiar order from Daehlarha. It was the same order he had given at this stage of every rehearsal of the mission.

Daehlarha checked the positioning of his squadrons as they formed a protective lead and bracket for the six Re-Entry Transports that had formed up in two columns in trail.

The _Salan_ Scout was already gone and the path-finder force was now completely on its own.

"Change vector to three-two-seven mark two-five.", Daehlarha ordered to begin the approach to the alien world as had been practiced, "Atmospheric interface in three minutes."

The bandits were _not_ losing interest as Lt Amanda Kroft had hoped they might.

Fighter pilots _were_ fighter pilots universally it appeared, and these Zentraedi pilots had sensed in the retreating survivors of Archer 42 an easy kill.

To her discomfort, Kroft was inclined to agree with them as she began to feel like a fish in distress with the sharks closing in driven by cautious appetite. They were undoubtedly aware of the fate of their comrades who had made up the units of the fighter sweep.

This was giving them pause.

Pause and caution _would_ give way to predatory instinct though- fighter pilots being fighter pilots- and when it did the Gnerls would quickly discover that The Blue Banshees were no longer capable of landing the initial, stunning blow that had put their fallen comrades off their game.

What Kroft could not determine was what menu selection the "sharks" had a taste for now.

"Raven, they're going to be lighting us up in a minute here-.", Wallop reminded Kroft needlessly. His voice had the trace indications of one trying to sound indifferent to mortal danger that could only be heard by those who had feigned bravery before. He'd lost an engine and sustained structural damage to his Alpha in the initial engagement and since then his functioning engine had shown overheating problems if throttled above 80%.

"-You really have to get those shuttles hauling ass or they're gonna get greased. You need to leave me, and you know it."

Kroft consulted the omnidirectional radar display on her cockpit's central MFD and found that the leading squadron of Fighter Pods had closed the range to just over 150 kilometers, and as Wallop had pointed out would be able to start illuminating The Blue Banshees and the Archer 42 shuttle element soon.

But Wallop's wounded Veritech was not the millstone about the neck that would free all for a dash to safety if cut free. The shuttles ferrying the survivors of the late-A.R.M.D. II space platform were "balls to the wall" already and had been in their run from high orbit.

The Gnerls hunting them were just hands-down faster, and with no cover to screen their movements the Fighter Pods merely had to demonstrate the will and patience to run them down.

Kroft recognized the situation at hand lent itself to a truth she had learned years before in poker.

When your hand was shit- a bluff was the best play.

"Wallop, shut up or I'll splash you myself.", Kroft snapped, deciding firmly in favor of the ludicrous.

"Ramrod, I want you to take Wallop under your wing and Pepe's element as support and get the shuttles to atmosphere."

"Where are _you_ going?", Lt Staff asked, not quite ready to relinquish his obligations as Kroft's wingman just yet- even if she was going to do what he suspected she was going to do- which was practically suicide.

"I'm taking the rest and we're going to cut hard left and back to threaten their high flank.", Kroft said, justifying Staff's suspicion, "They'll have to turn and face us, or get hit from above on the side."

"You don't have the ordinance to pick that kind of fight and walk away from it, Raven.", Staff warned, "You'll be inside of their gun range before you can fire a shot."

"But _they_ don't know that.", Kroft said, "And this isn't a debate topic. You've got your orders, Ramrod-. We'll see you at Fairchild."

There was a hesitation from the XO, but finally, "See you at Fairchild.- Good hunting."

Kroft tried to shake the nagging feeling that she was about to do something foolish so she could focus on attempting to pull off something foolish.

"Banshees, peel off high and left by pairs- loose intervals. Greaseball, you're on me… _Break!"_

"The Lieutenant is really going for it-."

LCDR Queffle had been following the activities and status of his late command's fighter squadron through their communications, and had understood how desperate and ill-advised Kroft's decision had been to turn on the closing force of Fighter Pods.

"-Do you think they can get the dittos to break off?", Phelps asked, suggesting he knew the answer but looking for his superior to tell him he was wrong.

This was the question that Queffle did not want to ponder too deeply himself.

"She doesn't have any options. What are the numbers?"

Phelps was hesitant, but replied, "Four minutes until atmospheric interface. About two before the dittos can start lighting us up."

The Personal Escape Enclosure that Queffle was sealed in suddenly felt much more like a body bag and less like the life-preserving equipment intended to prevent the need for one.

"Two minutes, or _about_ two minutes?!", the commander snapped.

"A hundred and four seconds now, sir.", Phelps replied, tied into the shuttle's limited sensor system with a PCIS from within his own escape enclosure.

That left a little over two minutes- _about_ \- for the Gnerls to do their worst to the four refugee shuttles from Archer 42.

The shuttles which were glorified ferries and lifeboats did have an array of defensive systems intended to protect them from enemy missiles- but their chances of survival were still heavily reliant upon substantial fighter cover.

Without the Alphas' protection, and should the Gnerls get within _gun range_ -.

Queffle decided that the next 120 seconds would tell.

Kroft and her Blue Banshees would defend the shuttle flight fiercely, and the commander found some comfort in that.

Mostly though, he had no other option but to wait and see.

" _Shit!-_.", Greaseball snarled through clenched teeth, "Their left flank guard is coming up to play! _They ain't buyin' it!_ "

They weren't buying it.

Kroft had known the gamble was all she had, but had felt as strongly in her gut that a force of Fighter Pods (that she was now estimating at six squadrons' strength) was _not_ going to feel significantly threatened by ten Alpha Veritechs who'd already shot their wad.

Bluffing time was over- now it was time to be the flea on the hound's ass.

Bite hard enough, he might take a moment from the hunt to itch- and a minute could make a world of difference for Archer 42's shuttles.

"Plow through the guard and hit the body!", Kroft ordered.

The general direction was all she could get out before the guarding left flank of Gnerls met them nose-to-nose with a full squadron's strength.

The two opposing forces passed through one another at an insane rate of closure- the Gnerls fanning out as they rose away from the force they guarded to loosely grouped two-ship Alpha elements. Like a clumsy jousting pass, laser and particle beam fire was traded but with no hits to either side and only frayed nerves on both to show for the melee.

Kroft prayed for another four seconds of good fortune to get within range to use the remaining Asp missiles in her MM-60 launcher system. Only a moment before she had passed a Gnerl on the ascent close enough to reach out and smack its starboard wing at the point of merge- and the shock of so near of a miss was beginning to creep in.

The Zentraedi left flank had clearly thought that in a game of chicken against larger fighters in greater numbers that the Alphas would flinch. Kroft had hoped that while smaller, the Alphas and their pilots were more familiar with "chicken" and the Zentraedi would have done the flinching.

Changes of underwear were probably in order on both sides.

There was some sign as Kroft dove in on the main force pursuing the Archer shuttle flight that the Zentraedi might be coming to believe in the crazy-bravery of humans. Having passed through their defending flank, the aliens were seeing the "mad humans" dropping on them with no signs of flinching in a similar, suicidal charge.

The sight made an impression clearly as well-maintained Gnerl formations fragmented as pilots were warned by their ships that radar energy was bathing and identifying them as targets.

Kroft saw in a disintegrating squadron, one Gnerl bank too sharply and slam into the side of what might have been his own wingman- shattering both craft like porcelain vases thrown to the floor. Before the debris had fully scattered, what had been a flight of Gnerls had transformed into an angry swarm all weaving and dodging one another in all directions.

Chaos was Kroft's friend for the moment.

As the pilot closed her firing trigger and felt her missile launchers empty in a quick-fire succession, a stream of particle beam bolts passed over her canopy to port from high astern and slightly starboard.

It was enough of a distraction to trigger the switch in Kroft from the offensive to the defensive as she threw the stick right and jammed the right rudder pedal to the firewall.

Greaseball saw the first of Raven's missiles begin to rake through the dissipating tangle of Gnerls before the pass of particle beams caused him to check high right on his tail. A moment before it had been clear- but now, a pair- no, three of the bullet-shaped Zentraedi fighters had tied on. They only could have come from the flank guard that the Banshees had merge-passed with on the attack- but it seemed impossible that they could have come about or reversed themselves into attacking position so quickly.

Yet, they were there, and the threesome was not alone. Greaseball's brief glimpse showed rapid energy blasts and missile launches from other Fighter Pods through his rear hemisphere.

It was these three though that Greaseball was about to warn Raven of when he saw the flash of the element leader's particle beam tri-cannon.

He felt a moment of searing heat.

And then nothing at all.

" _Greaseball!-_.", Kroft heard escape her lips- not quite a warning and not quite an evoked promise of vengeance.

She saw the passing of energy bolts through her wingman's center mass a split second before the Alpha dissolved in the explosion of one of its engine's fusion stage. The explosion was vivid and brief- and without question, unsurvivable.

The horror twirled away out of Kroft's strained line of sight aft as she kept her Alpha in a tight corkscrew dive to throw off the aim of the Gnerl element who had just scored a kill at Greaseball's expense.

Energy bolts zipped by to starboard and Kroft reversed her maneuver throwing left stick and rudder to be rewarded by a G-force roundhouse kick that slammed her about in her seat.

Alternating quick glances fore and aft, Kroft found that the three Gnerls incredibly had not been shaken from her tail but were barrel-rolling right to get an outside track and deflection shot on her. She had clearly not drawn three rookies from the deck.

 _Well, what now genius?_

The taunt Kroft had used to motivate herself in simulator training all through fighter school came back to her automatically, along with the spur it had always provided.

Kroft found a separate cluster of Gnerls passing starboard to port ahead, apparently more interested in getting out of the way of the fight than joining it immediately. Closer than she would have ever advised even the most skilled pilot, Kroft pulled her Alpha's nose in their direction getting crushed into her seat in the process and passed below the lowest element to feel the wash of their pulse-jet thrusters as they passed overhead.

Another glance aft found only her rudders behind her, but Kroft was on her own for now and knew that if she was not vigilant in her checking that she have a common experience to discuss with Greaseball face-to-face in the very-near future.

Ahead though and to port, a pair of Fighter Pods was banking right, possibly not seeing her or thinking that she was defensive and would not pick up on them.

They were sliding into what Kroft could easily turn into a low deflection shot- and she _did_ have two functioning laser cannons and a fully loaded gun pod.

" _Shit!- They're engaging! AIMs in the air!_ "

Lt Neile's call was not one that surprised the pilot of Shuttle One, Lt Gross.

The threat warning systems had come alive moments earlier, telling the flight crew of pilot, co-pilot, and flight engineer that enemy radar was starting to focus on them with predatory interest.

If there was "good news" it was that The Blue Banshees had given the larger force of Fighter Pods a scare with pure audacity, and that the number of predators hunting the flight of four shuttles had shrunk to eight with four Blue Banshees still detailed exclusively to their guard.

The "bad news" was that eight Fighter Pods was still more than enough to make quick work of four unarmed shuttles.

"Automatic ECMs are active.", Tran, the flight engineer reported as the shuttle's defense mechanisms reckognized the inbound air intercept missiles of a multitude threatening the shuttle, analyzed the situation, and responded.

The shuttles did not possess proactive ECM systems like the aggression-indoctrinated Veritechs and could not burn out an opponent's sensor systems. Their ECM suite did however have the power and sophistication to baffle and overwhelm the relatively simple electronic minds of missiles.

"Four AIMs tracking true at sixty kliks at one-eight-zero relative.", Tran called as the radar jammers flooded the shuttle's wake with waves of noise across the EM bands the missiles emitted in active homing.

"Wake up the Magpies in case.", Gross ordered as Earth filled the windscreen before him.

"Four Magpies hot in the nest.", Tran called back after flipping several switches high on the defensive systems panel at his station.

The D-2 "Magpie" was essentially a re-engineered AMSM-2 "Fury" missile whose redesigned use was averting death for its base platform instead of delivering death for it. Space that would have been occupied in a Fury missile by a seeker and warhead package housed in the Magpie transmitters and a control CPU that worked at nothing but providing an irresistible target to active and passive guided weapons.

Their only drawback- or at least the only complaint voiced commonly about the Magpies- was the decoy's limited endurance which necessitated launching only when the threat was uncomfortably close to the base platform.

"Can we maneuver at all?", Neile asked the pilot to his left as he watched the four missiles tracking the shuttle swiftly cross the fifty kilometer range marker on the shuttle's center console MFD.

"Not enough to be of much use.", Gross replied, knowing that Neile knew this himself.

Entering the atmosphere despite craft construction of higher strength and greater heat-resistant materials was still a mathematical exercise of exact speeds and angles. Too shallow an angle of entry, or at too high a speed and the shuttle would skip the thinnest layer of the Earth's gaseous envelope like a flat stone across the face of a pond. Too steep an angle and the craft could burn up from the diesel effect of air compression, or fold under the stress of the same air's inability to move out of the way.

Fortunately, Gnerls and their missiles were governed by the same physical laws and limitations. Atmospheric interface was a period of great vulnerability for any craft, but it was also the least ideal scenario for attack.

Gross hoped this would work in their favor.

"Thirty kilometers and-.", Tran said, beginning his regularly spaced reports on the progress of the missiles in stalking them. He paused though as his screen began to show him signs of an improved shot at survival.

"One AIM is going astray-. Yeah, _definitely_ going off track-. –And- _what the fuck?!-_ One of the Banshees is splitting from formation!"

Lt Neile watched as a single pulsating blip in the cluster tracking the shuttle veered to starboard off course and out of the realm of being a threat.

More curious was the sight of an Alpha's icon looping back- reversing its course _toward_ the Gnerls as the rest of the escort element held station with the shuttles.

A vibration began to roll through the frame of the shuttle- barely noticeable at first but it built steadily into noticeable buffeting as the airframe collided with sparse air molecules.

The tremors of the shuttle continued to build in intensity and were accompanied by a steady increase in G-forces the crew was experiencing. A curtain of plasma rolled up past the cockpit windscreen in licks, illuminating the small compartment.

The crew might have noticed the vivid colors and their beauty if they had not been so intent on operating their craft through these treacherous minutes compounded in danger by the introduction of missiles into the mix.

"A second AIM is going astray!", Tran called just before hull ionization robbed the crew of their sensors.

" _Damnit!_ \- Ionization black-out! We're blind!"

Staff had caught a glimpse of Wallop's Alpha pitching up and banking sharply right, but had lost eyes on his surrogate wingman before he had realized what was happening. Now, he only had the Alpha's omnidirectional radar to tell him the position of the other pilot and his wounded fighter.

He also allegedly had authority as the element lead.

 _"Wallop, get your crazy ass back in formation, NOW! THAT'S AN ORDER!"_

"Negative on that, Ramrod-.", came Wallop's immediate reply., "I was getting off the train at atmospheric interface anyway, and I've got a better chance one-on-eight with these guys than I've got re-entering anyway-."

Staff found Wallop high on his tail, almost dead astern and falling away rapidly as the first bumps of atmospheric interface began to rattle his Alpha. He had not come up with a solid plan to get Wallop and his damaged Alpha to a "safe" recovery point where the pilot of the lame fighter could ditch for pick-up by SAR- but Staff had not abandoned the idea.

Wallop had changed things now, and Staff could only react.

"Pepe, keep your element with the shuttle flight!", Staff ordered, firewalling the throttles and pulling into a banking climb before the order had completely escaped his lips.

The Alpha climbed easily away from the edge of atmosphere and with several seconds of exposure for Staff to high Gs, came around into distant trail of Wallop's fighter.

Staff recognized Wallop's "plan" at a glance. Nose-to-nose with the Gnerls, Wallop was using his ECM to jam out the Fighter Pods' radars. He couldn't do a thing about the AIMs in the air, but he could keep them from firing a second volley at the Archer shuttles.

Even as Staff was recognizing Wallop's crazy-brave but legitimate improvised plan of action, there were indications that it was _working_. One by one, the attack radars of the Gnerls stopped searching for targets- either having been destroyed by Wallop's radar or going through an automatic system reset to regain function.

Whichever- they were no longer tracking.

Now it was a matter of getting Wallop out.

Head-to-head, the Gnerl flight and the lone Alpha wolf had devoured the range between them with a high closure rate. Disengaging before the merge was not an option to a pilot with the least amount of tactical savvy on either side.

The worst of it for Staff that he was woefully out of range to do anything but watch.

"I want a medal for this!", Wallop exclaimed, much like a small child demanding candy from a parent on the check-out aisle at a grocery store.

Staff could barely make out the terms of the high-speed merge at his range.

There was a rippling flash of missile launches from Wallop's Alpha coinciding with the pulse of particle beam cannon fire from the Gnerl flight and then an indistinguishable series of larger explosions.

Staff's radar display showed the flanks of the Gnerl line peel off and disengage in the direction of higher orbit- four strong in total.

Nothing- neither Gnerl nor Alpha- emerged from the center of the meeting.

Refusing to let the moment in, Staff snap-rolled his Alpha left to begin his approach on Earth's atmosphere again.

There were still four shuttles that had to be shepherded safely to ground.

Missiles possessed no sense of self-preservation – their very purpose of being was the polar opposite.

Zentraedi missiles, as with the half dozen that had defied the electronic counter-measure efforts of the Archer 42 shuttle flight did not have complex homing logic either- but they had simple redundancy programming.

A half dozen had entered the atmosphere of the alien world still tracking the targets they had locked onto. Within moments, the same hull ionization that had blinded the escape shuttles also blinded the missiles leaving them only with the memory of their targets last course, speed, and range.

Atmospheric interface also began to diesel the air before the six missiles, rapidly building heat and exploiting another generic flaw in Zentraedi missile design- a general frailty to excessive heat.

One by one, the missiles overheated in rapid succession.

Two went wild as their guidance CPUs overheated and failed.

Two detonated prematurely when their warhead charges crossed the heat line into critical instability.

One simply disintegrated when an otherwise insignificant flaw in its skin gave way to heat and allowed air friction to rip the missile apart.

One, miraculously remained- flying the last intercept course it had calculated and counting down.

Lt Gross gripped the controls of the shuttle as though he would hold the ship together with his grasp.

The shuttle had been engaging in a standard deceleration program to bleed off energy and speed on its decent through the atmosphere, and had been executing a left S-turn when the ship's general rattle had been punctuated by a distinct and violent jolt from high starboard.

The flight control computers had compensated immediately, keeping the shuttle under control and in the decent program- but the ship's motion had changed. The powerful "rattling" the flight crew was accustomed to was now more severe and pronounced.

Shuttle One's flight crew checked quickly systems and ship's diagnostics reports that came back to them quicker than any living being could hope to ingest the information. Mostly, the reports were satisfactory.

Mostly.

"We've got control surface damage!", Tran announced from his seat, "Rudder and starboard stablizers!"

Gross saw that there was at least a minute left on the automated descent program before he could go manual again with any hope of bringing his ship safely to ground. Until that time, it was up to the computer and the ruggedness of the shuttle- and of course an element of luck.

"She'll hold together.", Gross said, attempting to convince himself as much as his co-pilot and flight engineer, "But we might not make Fairchild. The second we come out of blackout, light off the distress beacon and begin mayday calls on the emergency frequency-."

 _ **Artoc**_

Darius had never considered himself a student of the psychological disciplines, nor even a skilled observer of behavior- but it did not take an expert in either to see Supreme General Krymina's discontent as she made no effort to conceal it.

Philisto's attention was directed outward from the suddenly confining space of the flagship's command bubble to the multiple holographic displays opened over the ship's command deck. Sub-General Caldettas stood quietly beside his superior, observing the same as Philisto though for different reasons.

Caldettas's occupation required this attention to what the screens ere telling him.

Philisto who had no more training and experience in the military arts than Darius was a coward, and purposefully avoiding the _possibility_ of eye contact with the Te'Dak Tohl commander and the redirection of her agitation toward him.

Darius mused that perhaps he _was_ a better student of psychology and behavior than he gave himself credit for.

 _Humility_ was after all one of the flaws he recognized in himself.

Still, Darius could not place the source of Supreme General Krymina's displeasure.

The alien-controlled Robotech Factory had crossed into the faltering planet's shadow and had actually begun a slow, deliberate move away from the world. From what Darius recalled from many a tedious and unproductive tactical briefings and discussions on the possibility of Breetai using the Factory as a platform for resistance- it seemed to Darius that if this had been the legendary general's intent, he would have begun by now.

Darius was not reading in Caldettas excessive concern- which seemed to support Darius's own assessment- and Caldettas _did_ have the trained mind and experience to identify a threat.

Still, Supreme General Krymina wore the expression of one foreseeing the worst and without the ability to alter that outcome.

Darius, ever the scientist, drew his frustration from not being able to understand why.

"Two minutes to lead elements' maximum weapons range.", advised a now-familiar voice to Darius from the deck below.

 _Artoc_ , being well behind the forward edge of the rapidly advancing bulk of the 7th Grand Army's fleet would have no direct part in the initial exchange if the shooting were to start- but as every vessel of the fleet was an extension of Krymina herself to some extent, she had shown no indication of wanting to change her vessel's placement and expose it to danger.

Darius recognized also that Krymina was gifted in the ability to surprise.

She could change her mind.

"He won't surrender.", Krymina said finally, without prompting, and with bitter indignation, "It isn't in Breetai's nature to surrender. He will test my resolve."

A change in Caldettas snared Darius's attention, stealing it from Krymina for a moment. The army's executive officer's expression _now_ showed concern.

It was not the concern of a soul facing potential mortal danger, but the concern of a dedicated professional seeing the possibility of his greatest work coming undone before him.

"Supreme General, I am obligated to respectfully remind you that while the alien planet is of little use to us without the technologies in Zor's Battle Fortress- the Battle Fortress is of no utility without this world. We require _both_ to secure our freedom from The Robotech Masters."

Krymina's burned intensely with masterfully governed anger, a hint of which still crept out in her voice.

"I am _well_ aware of that, Sub-General."

"Command, Sensor Control.", came the same voice recognized by Darius, "A second contact has been detected moving away from the Robotech Factory- a ship."

"A single ship?", Krymina asked, careful to balance optimism against what her mind and training insisted she expect.

"Yes. A single ship, not of Zentraedi or catalogued alien design-."

Krymina braced herself, "On screen, maximum magnification and computer augmentation."

The center holographic viewscreen changed instantly, drawing the image it displayed from an anonymous vessel far forward in the fleet's charge.

The picture was blurred with pixilation, losing many fine details of the vessel's hull to distortion- but it was clear enough.

"That's the Battle Fortress.", Philisto said both factually and with the hope that violence might be averted inside the command bubble.

Darius briefly glanced over his shoulder to gaze on the maroon, organically reminiscent design of the trophy Krymina sought before looking back at the Supreme General.

"Kevtok's acquired intelligence stated that Zor's ship had been destroyed by that maniac, Khyron.", Caldettas said dismissively, not allowing his eyes to see what his mind could not account for.

"I see compelling evidence that Action Commander Kevtok's intelligence is somewhat flawed.", Krymina replied, "Communications, open a channel-."

"Pardon me, Supreme General", the communication officer interrupted, "-But we- _you_ are being hailed by Breetai."

Darius registered, but only for a moment, genuine shock on Krymina's face that morphed darkly and quickly to contempt.

"Put him on."

The strange diamond-centered, red circle ensign of the aliens appeared briefly on a second screen over _Artoc'_ s command deck before being replaced by a mid-chest to head image of Breetai.

His uniform was alien- not that of a Zentraedi, but the distinctive half-helmet covering the disfigured right side of his face, and the face not concealed behind metal and an electronic eye was his.

From a flashing icon in the lower left frame of the screen, Krymina recognized that the feed was both live and bi-directional.

Their locked eyes connected them, she and Breetai.

"Surrender Zor's Battle Fortress to me, Breetai, and I will allow the alien world to survive.", Krymina said flatly, repeating the demand of her previous transmission.

Breetai, as she had expected- had _hoped_ was unfazed and equally steadfast in his position.

"I will _allow_ you this world- but not the means to make it worth your effort, Krymina. That, I keep for myself until _I_ choose the time of our next meeting."

Krymina said coldly, "I will find you before then, _norghil_ \- that is what _we_ do. And when I've found you, I will demonstrate the _other_ thing we Te'Dak Tohl do."

Breetai's expression did not fluctuate in the least.

"The universe is a very large place to hide, Krymina- and prepare. You won't heed me, but I recommend you do the same."

The screen unceremoniously went dark, but Krymina's attention was already elsewhere.

The central viewscreen with the image of The Battle Fortress flashed in a brilliant blue light and was then empty with the exception of the background of the alien world.

The Robotech Factory was gone, as was Zor's ship- lost to fold and hyperspace.

Expecting some great display, Darius was heartily disappointed when Supreme General Krymina simply turned away on her heel and moved toward the door at the rear of the command bubble.

As she went, she passed the simple instruction to Caldettas-.

"Proceed with landing operations. Set Jekketh loose on this world, and then convene a meeting of my planning staff. We have a rogue norghil to locate."

 **The Bering Sea**

Lieutenant Commander Queffle had not expected to live long after a proximal missile detonation had thrown he and the other survivors of Archer 42 aboard the escape shuttle around in their seat restraints. He had expected a great roar as the shuttle flew apart around him, and then oblivion.

The shuttle had not come apart, but had struggled through its descent and despite a perceivable "limp" to its flight- it had continued to fly.

Even the distressing announcement by the pilot, Gross- that the shuttle was off course, failing, and would have to ditch in the sea was not as harrowing as Queffle would have expected it to be. Perhaps this was just perspective provided by the day as it had gone so far.

Nothing could have prepared Queffle for the brutality of the landing itself though.

The shuttle seemed to throw itself and everyone aboard to earth like a child in a tantrum.

Shoulders were bruised by the harnesses that held them and spines were compressed to the point of cracking as the frame of the shuttle wailed and groaned with the termination of flight and its meeting the sea. A great rush of water was heard all around as the sounds of straining metal subsided. The sounds, when heard from within the darkness of a personal escape enclosure were that much more terrifying.

Queffle tore the zipper of his cocoon open and released his seat harnesses. A sharp pain corkscrewed up his spine as he stood, but it was the unanticipated pitch and roll to the deck under his feet that sent him down to discover another unpleasant variable to the situation. Freezing salt water soaked the commander, eliciting a yelp of surprise from him but at the same time clearing his head instantly.

Joints and seals in the shuttle had clearly ruptured and if water was already in the cabin, there was every reason to believe that the spacecraft would not be buoyant for long.

By the dim, red light of the emergency illumination system, Queffle could see others from his crew freeing themselves and helping one another from their seats. Just a quick survey of the shuttle's company showed a lot of sprains and some broken bones perhaps, but every occupied seat was giving up its living occupant.

Queffle was helped to his feet by Chief Phelps who even in the crimson wash of the emergency lights looked pale to the commander's remaining "good" eye.

"You okay, Phelps?"

"Sure, once my balls leave my throat, sir.", Phelps muttered, steadying himself on his feet against a deck that was taking a distinctive angle down at the shuttle's tail.

"We've gotta abandon ship-.", Queffle said, the sickening irony of having to give that order twice in a day not lost on him, "She's headed to the bottom."

Phelps felt the last of the water on the deck roll off his feet and ankles as it went to the low point aft, and asked, "The bottom of _where_?"

"The _sea_ , Chief-.", Queffle said making his way toward the starboard cabin hatch that seemed to be on the high side of the shuttle's developing list, "-And it doesn't matter which because we can drown in one the same as any other if we don't get out."

"Right-.", Phelps agreed, recognizing the pointlessness of his question, "We should get the wounded into rafts first- the way the deck's tilting here, we might not be able to get them out if we wait too long-."

Queffle nodded his agreement, but recognized suddenly that he was missing personnel.

Pointing to the first two sturdy crewmen his eyes came across, the CO ordered, "You and you- _cockpit_ \- the flight crew may be injured."

"Aye sir!", said both as they made their way pas the CO to where the short stair to the cockpit passed through the forward bulkhead.

The angle on the deck was becoming more severe.

"Listen up!", Queffle yelled as to be heard clearly over the murmur of crew checking their shipmates, "We have to get off now. Five rafts, so I need a lead in charge of each. Rudenko, Connelly, James, and you Skarpnack- grab a second-in-command and move forward. Chief Phelps and I will take the fifth raft. Anyone injured or wounded, head of the line. We'll spread the wounded out between the rafts."

Queffle slapped the hatch with the palm of his hand, "Now we have to move fast-. When we pop the door, this bucket won't float for long-."

Almost as though to prove his point, the shuttle gave a groan and with a piercing metallic _bang!_ \- the sea began to spray in from a midship frame.

Queffle pulled the emergency handle on the shuttle's hatch and the eardrums of all were shocked as explosive bolts blew the door clear of the frame. A second handle pulled fired five tethered bundles free of the ship.

The commander saw the rafts uncoil in flight as they began to inflate and by the time they had settled into the heaving sea, they were taking form complete with the rise of their canopy enclosures. This was a relief of questionable validity to Queffle who in standing exposed to the elements for only a few seconds now was already feeling the numbing sting of arctic air and spray.

The possibility of dying from exposure had not occurred to him up to this point, but it was high on the list of racing thoughts now.

Fortunately, there was the task of escaping drowning to occupy the commander's mind first before he had to worry about freezing to death.

Phelps enlisted three large seamen to move others forward and to the hatch as one at a time the rafts were filled.

Despite the angle on the shuttles deck that was now well on its way to 40-degrees, and the disturbing sight of the rear of the cabin being awash to near the top of the bulkhead- there was no panic. The day's events had clearly steeled others beside Queffle.

It wasn't until the fifth raft was being filled that the two seamen who Queffle had sent forward to the cockpit returned alone.

Seeing their commander's question on his face, one of the seamen reported apologetically, "Sorry, Skipper- they're dead-."

"Dead?"

"Yes sir- all three. Broken necks, two of `em from the crash I guess and the engineer was all beat up and blood comin' from his ears- his harness broke."

Queffle motioned for the two men to leave the hatch next, before him.

It was inexplicably bitter he found, this last pill. Of anyone on the shuttle, it had been the three men in the cockpit who had done the most to save the lives of those who now were bobbing in the sea in five orange rafts- for that they had deserved to live at least.

War was not about _deserving_ though.

It just was.

The shuttle groaned again and the deck began to tip steeply under Queffle's feet.

She was starting her plunge.

Queffle unclasped the tether from its anchor point to the hull and flopped headlong into the raft. Water sloshed about him and the cold bit into him almost instantly- but he would not drown today. At least he would not drown.

Hands helped him off the pliable, flexing floor of the raft in the rolling swells. Another set of hands wrapped him in a thin, mylar thermal blanket that was part of the raft's emergency stores.

As Queffle found stability on his knees, he caught a glimpse of the shuttle's nose standing upright out of the sea, turning slowly as it slipped below.

The last connection to Archer 42 vanished with only a slight gulp in the rolling swells.

Overhead, as beautiful as the song of angels came the sound of Alpha Veritech engines moving by in a slow, low pass. Likely, one of The Blue Banshees had followed them down and was fixing their position in the sea.

Through the raft's clear plastic windows, Queffle could see the flash of distress strobes that accompanied a powerful, radio distress beacon.

Hopefully SAR would be along soon.

120


	5. Dark Sunrise

**Chapter Four**

 **Dark Sunrise**

"History- written by so-called _civilians_ \- speaks of the rise and decline of civilizations as though these events happened in a vacuum."

"The intelligent observer of history understands that civilizations are organic entities- _beings_. They require nourishment to grow, and gain nourishment from other civilizations, succeeding or failing based on their aggression and prowess in taking what they need."

" _Civilians_ mask this aggression in the sanitized guise of _politics_."

" _Warriors_ retain a higher degree of purity and are more _direct._ "

"It is time for the Te'Dak Tohl civilization to rise."

"This world must decline to nourish our growth."

"-And _then_ we will move on to the next."

Sub-General Jekketh

Commanding Officer,

Ground Forces 7th Grand

Army of the Te'Dak Tohl

 **Edwards City, California**

The urgency of Father Howard's mandate was not so weighty as to prevent him from seeing a certain metaphorical humor in his task as he led a dozen young boys and old men through the darkness in hopes of achieving a good.

A dozen seemed a strangely appropriate number of followers to the Catholic Priest, though the symbolic element hadn't dawned on him until this very moment.

Howard's church, St. John's, was less than two blocks behind in the darkened streets of the desert town, and already there were countless indications of those in need of sanctuary- both physical and spiritual. Flashlights turned on the faces of businesses whose window panes and doors had been smashed in, and in every instance guilty creatures who by day only hours earlier had been common citizens scurried from their crimes of desperation bearing the things they perceived needing for this emergency.

" _Come to St. John's for shelter!_ ", the priest called as another figure retreated back towards the darkened heart of Edwards City- and as in half a dozen similar solicitations before, the clergyman's call went unanswered.

Howard was not discouraged though- he was getting the word out. Once the initial panic subsided and people realized that they would need refuge, they would know where to go and be welcomed.

Streets away, Father Howard could hear a voice on a loudspeaker- a policeman no doubt- advising citizens to seek safety in a civil defense shelter or in the basements of their own homes.

The priest had to fight the natural inclination toward bitterness as he and other community leaders had spoken out many times in the past to authorities civil and military that the city had outgrown the shelters provided for the population for an emergency. He and others had railed against excuses of "limited funds" from civil and military leaders while the cash had flowed to create parks and memorials, and to detail and _beautify_ the reviving town.

Howard had understood this though, despite his own displeasure with the decisions made by advisory panels and planning boards. Money was not being wasted so much as it was being applied to the healing of the city's collective soul. Howard knew the human- the _spiritual_ value of this, even as he had fought against elements of it.

Who wanted to face the possibility that something catastrophic could happen again? Who wanted to acknowledge it with the application of money that could soothe and rehabilitate?

Only now, the catastrophic _was_ happening again- and Edwards City was not prepared.

The three civil defense shelters in the city would fill quickly if they were not filled already, and few of either the commercial or residential structures raised hastily in the years since The Zentraedi Holocaust had basements to them.

St. John's _did_ have a basement though- that served alternately as a community center and reception hall for the parish. Now it would serve as a shelter for anyone who Father Howard could persuade to go to it.

Reaching an intersection that Howard barely recognized without the illumination of streetlights, the priest stopped his following of merciful crusaders to direct them to their work. As the group gathered around him, Howard could hear the ticking of the spring-wound alarm clocks which had been borrowed from his room and the sisters' lodgings. With inconsistent power, the mechanical timepieces had regained a certain popularity. And now, with most electrical devices non-functional, they had great utility.

"We will use this corner as a meeting place.", Howard instructed, feeling like a quarterback at the center of a huddle rather than a priest for a moment, "You four, will go one block north knocking on every residential door you come across… You four go south, and you west… Bring the people here in twenty minutes, and then we'll decide on a guide to see them back to the church. Anyone who can join in knocking on doors- encourage them to help. We have to be quick, but _thorough_. Go now with the blessing of The Lord."

Howard watched his volunteers part ways in haste- boys and old men.

The men and women in their prime who resided in and around Edwards City were affiliated for the most part with the military, and had rushed to the RDF base at the first indications of crisis. The Lord had provided what Father Howard had needed though, as He always did.

The strange quiet of the night was broken gradually and then steadily by the sound of aircraft engines coming from the direction of the base. The rumble did not diminish but rather compounded, bringing Howard comfort with the familiar sound that normally would have been ignored.

The sound represented missions that unlike Howard's were not benevolent- but in the context of this night, were regrettably necessary.

Father Howard asked for Divine guidance and protection for the defenders as their departure made the very streets quake, and then he used the butt end of his flashlight to smash the glass a door to a low-rise apartment.

He had his mission of equal importance to fulfill as well.

 **Egerton, England**

Perhaps it had been the six months that the Earth had spent in a perpetual cycle of darkness and disk-like light following The Zentraedi Holocaust that Captain Howard Johnson remembered vividly that made every sunrise feel like a cause for celebration.

Every sunrise- except for this one.

The thin layer of ashen-grey clouds, not uncommon for England at this time of year, was all that kept daylight from feeling like complete nakedness to the RDF-Army officer as he tossed the travel bag he had packed for his week's leave at home into the back seat of the land rover parked outside of the main house's garage. His "Class-A" uniform, kept immaculate and impressive with brush and polish, had given way to the more practical, day-to-day utility uniform and boots- which now included Johnson's holstered sidearm at his hip.

Above the cloud deck, the skies rumbled with the sound of powerful jet engines- fighters no doubt. Egerton, removed in the country as it was, was still no stranger to the sound of military aircraft- few parts of the world still were.

The oddity was the number an proximity of fighters that Johnson was hearing now.

Captain Howard Johnson scanned the skies briefly, as though identifying the cloud-concealed aircraft somehow had a bearing on his obligations. The activities of the RDF Air Force had no impact on Johnson however, besides being a point of relevant curiosity- he had only one legitimate concern. He was on the clock to be back to RDF Base Salisbury.

This was his sole "official" obligation, but of course he was compelled by others.

That other obligations and their complications were becoming a voracious consumer of time and a general irritant to the army captain, but were ones he was bound to deal with.

The _lesser_ consumers of precious time, Johnson's younger brother Andy and the other one whose name only came to him as "Aunt Moggie" spilled out of the rear kitchen door wearing the dress uniforms they had been graduated in. Now in less than an inspection-ready state, the enlisted men now strangely resembled their duffle bags which sagged from their shoulders like things with broken spirits, limp and formless in their mostly empty state.

The newest members of The Robotech Defense Forces had brought no utility uniforms home having expected to escape back briefly into the civilian world with civilian attire before returning to Falkirk in their "Class-A's" for out-processing from basic training and moving on to their first assignments.

Under normal circumstances, these assumptions would have been acceptable without question.

Recent events however had re-defined "normal circumstances".

Howard Johnson found himself suddenly impatient to be on the move- _irrationally_ impatient- and was on the cusp of barking something short and militarily profane when the apparent cause of the delay maintained pursuit of the enlisted down the kitchen door steps.

The _greater_ consumer of precious time, looking completely out of the moment and more like a tourist on safari in designer khaki outdoor-wear followed her younger child in a way that made her elder hope that she did not intend to climb into the small sport-utility vehicle to accompany them.

Lorraine Johnson was at least within the normal bounds of her character if not meshing with the moment in that her administrator and facilitator of all things domestic, Lucile, was at her heels like an extension of Lorraine herself.

"-You've just made it through _basic training_ -.", the Johnson family matriarch protested to her youngest- clearly a continuation of some conversation that had begun inside and had been carried with her in her pursuit, "-What can they expect you to do?"

Dexter Johnson Sr., wise with years of experience to not put himself between his wife and another participant in a heated debate appeared inside of the kitchen door looking twenty years older than he had the night before in his pale color and leaning heavily on his cane.

"Lorraine, the boy _has no choice_ in the matter… Howard, explain this to your mother for the love of God."

Howard Johnson motioned for the two enlisted men to deposit their duffles into the open rear gate of the vehicle.

His mother who would argue with conviction against the wetness of water if the inclination struck her was clearly in that mindset. There would be no "explaining" what Howard already knew his mother to understand on a rational level.

The best that could be done would be to distract her long enough to make an escape.

"It doesn't matter, Mum-.", Howard said as his father made his way slowly and on unsteady legs down the three steps to the pavement of the car path, "They're enlisted members of the armed service now and are expected to report to their assigned post- that's Falkirk for now."

As Dexter Johnson reached his wife and began to whisper something unheard to the others around them into her ear.

The sky directly overhead thundered with sonic booms and rattled powerfully the Johnson family home's windows in their panes.

Howard Johnson felt a renewed urgency to be on the move.

"We're gone in ninety seconds.", the army captain said with a tone that left no room for discussion- not even with the formidable Lorraine Johnson, "What are we going to do with them?"

His mother's eyes were wetting as Andy Johnson watched her hug his older brother and kiss him about the face. Her lips never seemed to stop moving in low, quickly spoken words- even when Howard had to pull away so he would have the chance to say his goodbyes to his father.

Lorraine quickly shifted her attention to her youngest, the fever of the moment only intensifying as her eyes flashed with visions of eighteen years of her boy's life passing in seconds.

"Don't do anything foolish or dangerous…", Lorraine commanded as resolutely as any direction Andy had received from a training sergeant in the previous three months. She punctuated her maternal commandments with kisses and would have continued speaking had it been possible.

"…And you _never_ volunteer for anything heroic or think yourself a hero… You do _anything_ you must to protect your life-."

Cattermole had shrunk away nearer to the land rover, escaping the discomfort of the alien, parental drama that Andy was playing a supporting role to.

In the numbness of all that had happened in only a matter of hours and the equally unsettling uncertainty of what still lay ahead, Andy suddenly felt uncomfortable with the doting of his mother as well.

"Mum, _I have to go-._ "

Davidson, the head of Dexter Johnson's small, on-site security staff, had been joined by two subordinates nearby where they stood observing all in the invisible way that personal employees of the wealthy were accustomed to. Armed with sub-machineguns as they were licensed to be, Davidson and his men now broke from their traditional place of being nearby but aloof to join Howard Johnson by the land rover to initiate an interaction.

Looking weathered and rumpled as an old work boot, Davidson let the carrying strap of his weapon slide off his shoulder as he presented it with both hands to the army captain.

"Here, you may not need this, lad-.", Davidson said in his gravelly voice as he offered the HK sub-machinegun, "-But better to have if you do."

"Normally, I'd argue-.", Howard began to say as he accepted the weapon and instinctively checked to verify that the firing safety was on.

"You can give it back later.", Davidson said as though loaning a gardening tool to a neighbor, "We have more inside."

"Watch over my parents, Davidson.", Johnson said bluntly, adding, "Please."

The older man nodded as he completed the weapon's transfer by passing off the two spare clips he'd put into a deep coat pocket, "We'll trade stories over a pint when you're back."

"It's a deal.", Johnson agreed.

Davidson's men had followed their lead's example and had handed their weapons over to the two enlisted men who had accepted them after only brief hesitation.

Howard Jonson felt his heart leap into his throat in seeing his brother- looking _so damn young_ \- taking possession of the sub-machinegun. As though explaining the new reality of things to his mother, he had to remind himself that this was something that would have to become familiar to Andy- and quickly. Howard reminded himself of this as he wondered whether _he_ could become familiar with it.

A moment later, and seeming odd by comparison, Lucile was handing each of the young men a twine-bound, paper parcel that was heavy with bottled water, hastily-made sandwiches, and small, non-perishable snack foods.

Howard got into the driver's seat of the rover after giving the house-keeper a quick hug, "Appreciated, but I don't think we'll have time for a picnic lunch before we get to where we're going."

"My father said he had thought something similar before he spent two days in a ditch a mile from the beach at Dunkerque.", Lucile replied with a sure wisdom as she stepped back from the vehicle.

Howard couldn't help but let a small laugh slip, "Good historical reference to start us off with, Lucile."

Howard was surprised to see his father assisting in the departure of his sons by ushering Andy and then Aunt Moggie into the passenger and rear seats respectively. It was only when their eyes locked for a moment that Howard could see that Dexter was hastening them away before he lost the battle to maintain his composure.

"We love you, and we're here for you lads if you need anything.", Dexter said as he closed the door with his free hand and then tottered back with cane and an aged man's gait to join his wife by their home.

The land rover's engine started smoothly- a benefit to regular and quality maintenance on a vehicle that the owner had a fair chance of never seeing again.

Like everything with an electrical component owned by the Johnsons, the land rover also was now enjoying the additional investment of EMP hardening that had become a mandatory "option" offered on civilian products following The Zentraedi Holocaust that had rendered useless 98% of the civilian vehicles, electronics, and appliances that had not been destroyed outright.

Not all could afford the feature that was now returning the investment a thousand times over, but the Johnsons were among the fortunate who could.

Assuming that the local power grid would be restored at some point relieving the Johnsons' generator of the burden of supplying electricity, the full luxuries of modern existence would continue. This membership in the elite carried with it though the strong possibility that Davidson and his men would be called upon to perform their professional duties.

The elite were popular and obvious targets during times of crisis for those who were not members.

Howard made sure that all being left behind were clear before putting the vehicle into gear and beginning down the drive toward the main gate to the grounds.

"Don't look back.", Howard advised his brother in the way that children were advised not to play with matches, "You want to, but don't. If you look back- they'll think that either you or they left something unsaid, and it will stick with them. So don't look back."

"I wasn't going to.", Andy said vacantly- the hollowness being one of mild shock and not apathy, "We've got to pick up Cedric by his mum's place-."

"I haven't forgotten.", Howard replied, bending his own rule slightly and looking in the rear view mirror just as the drive began its gentle right curve that terminated at the steel gate.

He instantly wished that he had not as his last glimpse of his parents was of his mother and Davidson supporting his father in a labored walk back toward the kitchen steps.

 _Never_ look back.

"-I'm going to get you chaps as far as Manchester, and then you're going to have to find your own way. I can't haul up to Falkirk and then back to Salisbury-. The logistics just don't work- there's going to be a hell of a run on petrol and I can't assume that I'm going to be able to fuel up again."

Andy shrugged, "As long s the train is running-."

Howard shook his head vigorously, "No- no trains. Normally, sure- but if hell starts raining down on the realm, they're as likely to get you killed in transit as there on time. There's a supply depot just west of Manchester- you can hitch a ride north from there and leapfrog to Falkirk."

Andy was skeptical, "Will that work with all that's going on?"

" _Make it work._ ", Howard said more as an officer to an enlisted man than as an older brother to a younger, "You've given up a life where failure is an option-. _Congratulations."_

A moment's silence passed between three young men as the words were allowed to penetrate.

Andy looked down at the sub-machinegun resting across his lap in the way a young man might look at the surprise product of unwanted paternity.

"What was Davidson thinking, anyway?", he laughed, transferring the weapon to floorboard between his feet, "I think it would be a stretch to imagine a Zentraedi being intimidated by this-."

"It's not for the Zentraedi.", Cattermole said from the back seat- his voice heavy with understanding. His weapon was no longer on his lap either, but in his hands cradled like something to be guarded.

"It's for the loonies-.", Howard explained, "It hasn't sunk in just yet, but it won't be long before it really hits people- what's happening. Then all bets are off. People who remember the Holocaust could do anything- riot, loot- hell some have been known to react to stress by actually _trying_ to get their selves killed. People are bananas when they're scared. You remember that- hear me?"

Longworth Road traveled southeast along the old Delph Reservoir and was devoid of even the modest traffic that could normally be expected at this early hour of the morning. There were eerie indications that people had been traveling at the time of the attack- cars rendered useless by EMP and abandoned on the shoulders of the road, but no signs of their occupants. After several minutes without a glimpse of another functioning vehicle, Andy was relieved to see signs of other human life in the form of two police cars speeding with sirens blaring in the opposite direction for reasons unknown.

There was no great, ebbing sea of humanity fleeing the way Andy had imagined there might be when his mind had been racing to brace him for what he might encounter.

It made sense in a way though. There was no present threat to flee from. Radio stations that had been designated as "civil communication infrastructure' and whose transmitters had been EMP hardened were broadcasting civil alert news of the orbital attacks on cities and military bases in the Americas and in eastern-most Asia.

All of Europe and Africa remained unscathed witnesses to the first hours of what was already being called "The Second Robotech War".

There were no burning cities to evacuate.

There were no regions of enemy occupation for refugees to migrate away from.

The portions of the Earth that had known the worst violence done by the indigenous population upon itself with a rich history of wars could only stand by, riveted to the reporting of ongoing tragedy on the other side of the world and wait in anticipation of what might come.

Howard turned off the radio after the female voice giving the real-time account of unfolding Armageddon began to repeat the dire accounts of the fate of New York, Ottawa, Chicago, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. The repetition of the news was benefitting from the earlier telling in that the dramatic element had been polished noticeably. The facts being the same and with no heart to listen to the announcer's take on the unfolding tragedy, Howard had no compunction in silencing the radio for the moment.

"Maybe we get a pass.", Howard said in an empty stab at optimism as he took one hand away from the wheel long enough to put a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and light it.

He added after a moment's dark reflection on his initial though, "I mean, the Yanks have brought it on themselves, right? Anytime that _anything_ catastrophic happens in a picture, it's in New York or Los Angeles, right? -So who knew that the Zentraedi enjoyed the cinema?"

The shared thought didn't provoke a laugh the way Howard had hoped, but Cattermole did from the back seat say bleakly, "So thanks to H.G. Wells and Speilberg , they probably also remembered to get their pox shots before they came. So much for the possibility of _that_ tidy end to this mess…"

Howard changed gears quickly. He wasn't in a mental state to ponder the salvation of mankind.

"So have you given it more thought?"

Picking up on the fact that the question was primarily directed at him several long seconds after it had been posed, Andy replied with a simple, "Huh? Thought about what?"

"About the philosophical plight of human moral structure in a potentially godless universe-. _What do you think I mean, you vacuous wank?!_ "

"-About an MOS?", Andy replied, struggling to come out of his own head and the whirling thoughts within.

Cattermole cut in, "-But I do have a thought on that last one too-."

Howard half-turned in his seat, "Do you mind? I'm trying to put the fire under my brother's ass- the subject in question seeming to have gained an _immediate relevance_ about now."

Andy shook his head, saying, "Don't know really. Hadn't put much thought into it in the past forty-eight hours. I'm wondering if the whole officer's route bit is even an option anymore. We're going to need a lot of soldiers- right? _A lot_ of them."

Howard's glare burned into his younger brother before he ever spoke, "Have you gone fuck-tarded on me now? You have the option of being an officer, and you're talking about being a _rank-and-file_? You know you're far too bright for that."

"But I'll get into the fight quicker if I go enlisted.", Andy said, defending his position, "What's wrong with the enlisted?"

Howard shook his head, "Look- there's nothing _wrong_ with enlisted-. Man for man they're right, upstanding chaps and they're the muscle of the military-. –But tell me now, why did you join?"

Andy blinked, not sure from the experience of many dining room debates where this interrogation was going, "You're questioning my motives for joining now?"

"Not your motives-.", Howard said, easing the edge off his questions, "Your _motivation_. Don't overthink it- five words or less."

Andy blurted the only thing that made any sense, "To make a difference- I suppose."

" _Ah!_ ", Howard said with a nod as though finally succeeding in dredging up the truth he'd suspected, "-My point then-. If you go _enlisted_ you'll make a difference, sure-. But it will be limited to your squad, your platoon- maybe the company you're with if you're lucky. Go _officer_ and the limit to the difference you can make is only how high you're willing to climb. But it's not _easy_ either-. The word _responsibility_ is one you'll have to get chummy with."

"It's better than sharing a slit trench with Kingsley for the rest of the war though.", Cattermole pointed out from the back seat as the rover dipped into a shallow dell, "That decided it for me."

Howard mused, "Yeah- and do you want to have to take orders from the likes of this one here for the rest of you're career?"

Andy was quick to reply, "So that's two for the officer's track _pro_ column. -I just can't see being able to give orders that would get people killed. –I mean, how do you do that?.."

Howard was thoughtful for a moment, "In truth, you don't ever get past that completely. You just make the best decisions you can and know that _fewer_ people are hurt as a result. I'm morbidly curious to see how that holds up in practice, but… _Oh, Christ…._ "

It was Andy's already emotionally threadbare state that caused him a moment's panic, thinking that something was seriously wrong with his brother before he realized that Howard's utterance of distress was externally driven.

Looking forward through the windscreen, Andy got his first glimpse of Egerton from the top of the rise on the other side of the dell- a sight he was accustomed to from years of seeing it on a regular basis. Only now, there was nothing _regular_ about Egerton or its appearance.

There were signs of unrest and violence that could be seen even from several kilometers distance. Black smoke rose in pillars from several points toward the middle of town, footed with licks of orange flame, and softening into an even grey haze that was almost indistinguishable from the cloudy, winter sky.

Andy did not have to ask or think long to understand that this was the illogical but common aftermath to the desperate act of looting.

"Are we going to be able to pick Cedric up?", Andy asked his brother who was not braking, but was easing off the accelerator as though weighing the options of entering the devolving bubble of civilization.

"Not sure.", Howard said vaguely, sounding as though he was calculating things in his mind that neither enlisted man in his company had yet been trained to process, "We'll try. –But I'd keep that weapon handy-."

 **ASC Salvador Base,**

 **Northern Brazil**

The earthy dankness of the rain forest that Lieutenant Colonel Warren Mathias associated with summer nights was cloaked beneath the sharper, artificial, and foreboding smells of cordite and expended explosives.

These olfactory overtones were not strangers to Salvador Base, nor was it unusual that they should be more prevalent during the holiday season- the Zentraedi malcontents having long since identified the calendar days when human minds were more _distracted_ by festive thoughts.

What was unusual was the ferocity and intensity of the attack, and the proportionate response that was required from base security troops to hold it in check and to maintain the perimeter.

And of course there was the unique aspect to this night's attack that it _just happened_ to coincide with a planetary assault.

The _coincidence_ of the extraterrestrial attack was immediately understood to be no coincidence at all. There clearly had been coordination at all levels and on a grand scale to be able to achieve such a feat-.

But how?

For the most part "unindoctrinated", terrestrial Zentraedi- _malcontents_ being the actively militant strain- lived on average at a subsistence level on the food and needed commodities that they could steal or barter for with other Zentraedi and even a good many humans who were detached from Earth's reviving civilization.

These were no longer the disciplined fighting forces that had battled overwhelming numbers of Invid to a stalemate across the universe. These were a shadow of the warriors who had found themselves marooned years before with no hope of rescue. Any communications equipment that may have made it to Earth's surface with them had been either seized or destroyed quickly by the similarly tattered RDF, or had quickly fallen into disrepair and uselessness.

Still- it was evident that the Zentraedi _had_ somehow found a way.

They had found a way to bridge the communication gap to call out into the cosmos.

They had found other surviving Zentraedi, combat effective and willing to rejoin the fight.

They had found a way to plan and coordinate without raising the least bit of suspicion in United Earth military and civilian minds alike.

And in doing this, they had restored Zentraedi who for all practical purposes had been reduced to little more than spear-toting savages into a functional, imbedded army.

That army was making its presence known around the perimeter of ASC Salvador Base, Lt Col "Mojo" Mathias was reminded as a salvo of six heavy mortar rounds plummeted in quick succession- walking an admirably straight line across the longest of the airfield's four runways.

The mortar rounds' approach had been masked by the heavy thrash of helicopter rotors as a flight crossed the northern grounds of the base in a dash east to support units defending the perimeter against a strong malcontent push. Mathias could see between the maintenance and storage buildings the luminous exchange of laser and tracer fire through the base's outer-perimeter microwave fence.

Knowing first-hand the better vantage enjoyed by pilots, Mathias understood how this element of Salvador's recently enhanced helicopter contingent was able to press with merciless speed on the ground-based opponent. Leading the full-throttle charge was a flight of four of the ASC's newly acquired VAH-1 "AJACS" attack helicopters- crudely so-designated. Much like Mojo's new Logan Veritech, the AJACS was the ASC's homegrown response to the RDF's former claim to dominance of the "transformable platform" market in combat air systems.

Admittedly- though not publicly conceded or admitted in response to RDF accusation- the Logan and the AJACS _borrowed_ from some advanced software and pilot-computer interface systems created by the RDF's Veritech Design Bureau.

The end result was 100% ASC inspiration and effort however.

With qualities that were equal part tank and attack helicopter, the AJACS was ideal to lead the charge for the trailing Lakota gunships into malcontent fire that angled up to meet them as they approached.

Mathias saw the angular, armored bodies of the AJACS silhouetted by the strobe-flash of rocket pods loosing their savage contents. Dots of light- the minimal burn plumes of the Hydra rockets' engines- marked the transit of weapons through the smoke-hazed darkness on a steady slope that terminated in their disappearance into the jungle canopy.

Flashes lit the jungle just beyond the treeline, illuminating the toss of earth and splintered trees skyward as rocket warheads exploded in a spray of steel flechette. Door gunners in the trailing Lakotas raked the undergrowth of the gutted area, saturating "hot spots" that appeared to them on infra-red with laser and machinegun fire as the entire helicopter flight banked sharply to run south, parallel with the perimeter fenceline.

As the AJACS and Lakota gunship flights vanished from sight behind the base's maintenance and warehouse complex and the deafening beat of rotors began to subside, Mathias paused to observe the treeline that had just been visited with such violence to see how strongly the malcontent enfilade would resume. Even the most withering fire could be counted on to leave survivors, and even a _reduced_ malcontent force could still be expected to join a fight as fearlessly as it had with the benefit of its full strength.

Mathias had come to understand that the term _combat ineffective_ applied in the minds of Zentraedi only to those units whose ranks were no longer drawing breath.

It was an admirably resilient quality of the species- so long as you weren't the one charged with fighting them.

The lesson was not one that only Mathias had come to learn though. Even as the pilot was turning to finish his dash to the hangar where there were signs of frenzied preparation around the Cavaliers' new Logans, Salvador's light mecha units were moving to exploit the pause in malcontent offensive thinking.

A half-dozen anthropomorphic MB-1A light battloids charged across the base's runways toward the evisorated stretch of jungle that still burned and smoldered from the helicopter close air support. Lightly armed by mecha standards with a single EU-11 rapid-fire ion cannon gun pod, each "thin-skin" Battloid standing just over six meters in height was still more than a match for the average malcontent armed with conventional infantry weaponry.

The Battloids pressed hard on the salient, causing the ground to tremble as their mechanized feet carried the eight metric ton weigh of each at over 75 Kmph across the airfield. While these lesser members of the mecha "family" had little to nothing to fear from assault rifles, or even heavy machineguns- there was always the possibility that a malcontent lurking in the undergrowth was toting an anti-tank rocket. The latest technology still gave way to physics, and even the most venerable of shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets could still do grievous harm to an MB-1A "Light" Battloid and its pilot.

Only by applying the same aggression in movement as was employed by infantry fire-teams could the Battloids hope to keep the heads of any surviving malcontents down. Once they reached the treeline and entered the dense growth of the Amazon Jungle, malcontents who might have been carrying anti-tank rockets would find it more difficult to engage with them.

Until that moment, the MB-1As were exposed.

"Exposure" was never comfortable, but it was not unfamiliar to Chief Warrant Officer Emilo Santos of the ASC, 143rd Light Mecha Division, Civil Defense Corps.

Normally, units like Santos's platoon under Lieutenant Pasqual were deployed to the regenerating urban centers to support the quelling of unrest. In this capacity they were the "heavies" behind many Global Military Police actions that were restricted (ironically- considering the GMP name) to the Americas no farther north than the Rio Grande. This was fine to Santos however, as there was plenty of work to be had just in this portion of the world.

The "routine" in urban pacification was the standard show of force behind GMP action teams who did the bulk of the work in dispersing riots and restoring order to fragile cities and towns that were constantly threatening to tear themselves apart with each food shortage or utility interruption that were still far more common below Texas than in the higher latitudes of the North American or the European Sector.

Most of these GMP support actions amounted to little. Heavily armed police shock units were normally enough to give pause to undernourished civilians hurling rocks and bottles- but add the towering figure of a Battloid and the heavy trudge of its mechanized step, and the wills of the unruly were normally broken.

There was lethal violence as well though.

Santos had been forced to fire his weapon a number of times (nine to be exact), and while justified in each case by the circumstances- deaths had resulted. Thankfully most of the deaths had been those of malcontents on raids who simply refused to accept failure in their sordid pursuits, and preferred death to withdrawing from a raid empty-handed.

This was not disturbing to Santos- there was an _abundance_ of Zentraedi in the world and the loss of those who would not conform to their new reality was not high on his priority list of tragedies to mourn.

It was these though- the malcontents who clung to their warrior ways- who occasionally caused the deaths of men and women who Santos knew and had responsibility for. There had been three, all lost to pre-Robotechnology anti-tank weapons used at close range within the three-dimensional confines of urban battlespaces. Even mecha like the comparatively diminutive MB-1A showed the same weakness in urban warfare as had been realized in the tanks and armored vehicles of the "old" world.

The strengths of giants just did not lend themselves to confined spaces that restricted maneuver.

For the sake of easing the tension and frustration of operating in urban environments as much as for maintaining a valuable cross-section of applicable combat skills, units like Santos's platoon were rotated regularly to the boonies. Here they supported ASC infantry patrols and offensive operations. And while it was true that the jungles of The Control Zone were "confined spaces" with which the Battloids had to cautiously contend, they did not present the same constant potential for three-dimensional attack by the enemy.

 _Here_ the malcontents were still wise to posses a healthy respect and of human mecha technology.

Santos was witnessing that healthy respect as the range to the treeline shrank to under a thousand meters with his squad still running a full charge to close the rest. Thermal and optical enhancement provided by his MB-1A showed clearly the humanoid shapes glowing in white retreating from positions inside the treeline. Other forms that would give off notable heat signatures for some time lay where the rocket and strafing attack of helicopter gunships had ended their lives and left them. Most of these featureless white forms were intact- others were not, and in these cases Santos was grateful for the inadvertent sanitization of the image provided by the IR overlay.

Santos could see the outgoing fire pouring from the pre-constructed firing positions within the perimeter that were occupied by infantrymen from Salvador Base's security force. Since the fire from the malcontents had dropped off completely with their retreat, there was the inevitable urge from the perimeter defenders to serve a final _coup de gras_ to those who had chosen to pick the fight this holiest of evenings.

Had the base security troops not had so much experience with the local malcontent population, Santos might have worried that they would take up immediate pursuit of the enemy. They did show restraint though and it appeared that they would allow the Battloids to make the initial pursuit – reducing and scattering the malcontents more before the infantry engaged in mopping up.

As he closed to within five hundred meters of the perimeter, Chief Warrant Officer Santos felt a sudden twinge in his gut- a combination of instinct and intuition that told him that the malcontents were collapsing back into the jungle _too_ willingly.

Santos's first subsequent thought was that the malcontents might not be so much driven, but in the act of drawing he and his squad in. Perhaps some of the "dead" were not so dead as they appeared and just waiting for a Battloid to come close enough to ensure a kill with an anti-tank rocket.

The true motivation for the malcontents' hasty retreat manifested itself suddenly and with little warning to Santos and his men in their distraction over fleeing micronized Zentraedi Warriors.

They were removing themselves from a cross-fire.

Santos, in second position in his squad on its advance got only a glimpse of something glowing slightly warmer than the ambient air temperature.

Something roughly humanoid in shape.

Something _huge._

There were moments of _connection_ in combat- moments when by means that did not stand up to rationality, great communication and understanding was achieved between combatants. More often than not, this connection was between members of a unit, as was the more plausible variant of the incredible.

Sometimes- on rare occasions- the connection was made between opponents whose sudden, violent collision bound them in the most intimate of relationships: one in which the life of one was to be taken by the other.

For an instant- a barely perceivable measure of time, Lieutenant Hyra of the Serhot Ran felt that connection with the alien being that piloted the laughably small mecha downrange of the lethal end of her Nacht-Rau's destabilized plasma cannon.

She sensed its last moment of terror at impending death.

The single, capsule-like energy projectile ripped from the gaping bore of the weapon mounted to the combat suit's left forearm through the mid-level growth of trees- incinerating leaves and lesser branches with the heat of its passage.

Designed to deliver an incapacitating or terminal blow to heavily armored targets and reinforced structures the plasma round passed cleanly through the lead MB-1A that had just become aware of the Nacht-Rau's presence, before piercing the light frontal armor of the second Battloid.

The energy round detonated scattering molten metal, dismembered mechanical limbs, and razor shards that had been the ASC mecha in all directions.

Hyra's single opening shot was followed by a quick series of short bursts from Sub-Lieutenant Ehral's Nador rifle. The Serhot Ran sub-lieutenant, who had survived the Re-Entry Transport Pod crash a season before with Action Commander Kevtok, Moyrt, Hyra, and three others of his same grade was now fully restored to his proper dimensions and operating the second Nacht-Rau in Hyra's improvised squad.

While locating and restoring Regults to operation for norghil warriors had not been exceedingly difficult, the Serhot Ran officers of the diminished reconnaissance expedition had hoped to make contact with marooned Quadranos of General Azonia's former command. These- it had been hoped- could be trained in the operation of the five Nacht-Rau combat suits whose Serhot Ran warriors had been killed in the transport crash.

Fate had denied Kevtok's team contact with Quadranos whose experience with the Queadlunn-Rau combat suits on which the Nacht-Rau was based, and who would have qualified in principle for the step up into the more formidable war machine. As such, the Serhot Ran resigned that they would simply have to make do.

However, based on these first moments of contact with the enemy- Hyra suspected that the force she had in hand might be adequate.

Ehral's first and second bursts of rapid-cycle destabilized plasma rounds cut apart two additional MB-1A Battloids before they could react to the destruction of the two that had fallen to Hyra's single shot.

His third and fourth shredded the remaining two on the retreat- shredding them disgracefully from the rear.

"Move to second position!", Hyra ordered, "Sensors on!"

The jungle splintered around the movement of Zentraedi war machines no longer concerned with stealth.

ASC infantry spilled out of their prepared dug-outs as the two Nacht-Rau combat suits advanced swiftly over the east perimeter fence behind the broad sweep of grazing fire from their Nador rifles that lit the area with the rapid pulse of their outgoing plasma bolts.

Under this same cover, Hyra's supporting two squads of Regults, an unevenly divided fifteen, vaulted free of the jungle's constriction to quickly form up in a standard wedge advance with their leader's Nacht-Rau on point. No longer concerned that their own sensor emissions would draw attention, targeting systems came on-line and provided Regult pilots precision in their aim as particle beam cannons joined the wash of fire pouring from Nador rifles.

While sweeping the battlefield with her rifle's aiming reticule and seeking a worthy adversary- _if_ the micronians could even offer one- Hyra realized that her supporting Regults were alternating between reducing the structures of the outpost and firing with abandon on the displaced alien infantry scrambling on foot before them.

Hyra felt a sting of indignation flare deep in her brain and radiate out to her extremities with an electric tingle as the Warriors whom she had helped hand-pick for the privilege of operating the limited number of Regults that had been restored abandoned their discipline to recklessly distract themselves with targets of no particular value.

Reprimand was on her lips when she realized what she was witnessing.

This was the reciprocity- the venting of frustrations built up over the years of exile that these Warriors had been subject to. And for the aliens now fleeing in abject terror from the option of dying to either a particle beam blast or the less elegant stomp of a Regult foot, there was probably a comparable collapse in a falsely-constructed sense of control and superiority.

 _This_ was a _good_ thing, Hyra resolved with a split-second's decision.

She would allow it.

Lt Hyra's attention was drawn north to where burning wreckage was tumbling out of the sky over the micronian installation- one of the peculiar, alien, rotating-wing aircraft no doubt. It, and the others like it, had devastated the forest very near to her position less than a minute before without even being aware of her composite unit. It was an offense in situational awareness that they would now pay for.

Her suspicion was confirmed with the scattering of the other ships of the flight- a panicked dissolution to element cohesion that could only mean that Action Commander Kevtok had entered the fight at the base's northern perimeter with his subordinate Regults.

Hyra could not see Kevtok's Nacht-Rau, or any of the Regults supporting him but could mark his rough position by the region of the alien post in which structures began to erupt in explosions and flare up quickly into flame.

Missiles leapt up into the smoke-saturated night sky from at least one concealed, anonymous Nacht-Rau and fanned out in quick pursuit and overtake of the fleeing alien airships.

A Lakota, possibly unaware that it had a missile in trail made a low, fast dash across the airfield. It was near center when the missile connected with the target, shattering the tail mid-way through the boom and splintering a rotor blade with the force of the same blast.

Uncontrollable, Hyra watched as the tailless airframe began to spin and gyrate with the rotation of the diminished rotor system and skidded from the sky into the hardened surface of one of the base's already useless runways. Fragile human forms could be seen to jump from the open compartment at the craft's midsection before it struck concrete- a desperate, snap-decision attempt at self preservation. Hyra saw one body vanish in mid-air as it crossed paths with spinning rotor blades. Another was lost a moment later under tumbling wreckage when the savaged helicopter rolled into the deck and burst into flame.

To the south now, a fuel storage facility identified by warriors familiar with this base from repeated yet commonly futile raids against it showed itself as a geyser of fire rose into the darkness.

Lieutenant Moyrt had struck now as well, destroying the first of three fixed targets that had been assigned to him.

Now was when meticulous preparation and planning for this single action began to yield results, Lt Hyra recognized.

It was also the moment when all but the objectives of the plan fell by the wayside.

Micronians were in a frenzied scramble in all directions and from all points. Some retreated from wrecked and burning buildings and vehicles while others seemed to rush to them. Utter chaos was the constant now as Hyra adhered to the core element of the plan Kevtok had decided upon for neutralizing this military outpost-.

 _Press for the center._

 _Destroy anything of military utility first._

 _Destroy everything else second._

Te'Dak Tohl- Serhot Ran shock troops would be landing within the hour here and at other human posts in the vast rain forest whose edges Hyra and the others of the reconnaissance force had not found in a season's travels to organize armed support for this night across the region. The action groups who would land here would not- _could not_ \- make use of any of the micronian facilities or material.

But they would need this tactically advantageous position to disembark and begin operations to clear organized alien resistance.

This left Kevtok and his reduced command with the conceptually simple task of clearing a landing zone and holding it.

The wail of Salvador Base's general alarm siren was suddenly choked off as it rose toward the apex of its range. Oddly unsettling as this was, it did not leave silence- but rather the many sounds of battle that perhaps it was partially intended to mask.

The rapid, cracking report of energy weapon fire intermingled with random "primary" explosions of missile warheads that had a pronounced jarring effect on the eardrums and joints, and the follow-on of "secondary" explosions that rolled over all like invisible sea swells.

If there were choppers aloft, they could not be heard anymore- but their rhythmic rotor-beat had been substituted abundantly by the clatter of automatic weapons fire punctuated with the fall of mortars and the occasional burst of a grenade. Like wildfire, skirmishes were springing up all over post as could be heard by the gunfire exchanges both near and far.

And like wildfire blazing with unsustainable intensity, these too could not last long.

Lieutenant Colonel Warren "Mojo" Mathias gritted his teeth through the building whine of his Logan Veritech's engines that tormented him in taking their leisurely time in achieving a full start. The world he had grown accustomed to with its stark contrast of high technology and primitive wilderness was coming to an end around him. –Or perhaps the façade was finally burning away to reveal the circle of Hell that had always been there.

Every pilot or soldier who had served in "The Zone" and had fought in a battle the way that the theater had defined _fighting_ was forced to contemplate the possibility of a "last stand". It was that omnipresent risk of an environment rich with the enemy, the jungle, and little else that promised with near-certainty that there would be instances when the unfortunate would have to decide whether to meet their end with a fight or meekly.

Mathias had chosen the former- if that time were ever to come for him.

Now though was not that time.

Salvador Base was not to be his Alamo. It was rather a sinking ship that he had the means to abandon.

This wasn't cowardice-. Command and control- the hinge on which battles against numerically superior enemies often swung toward victory or defeat- was gone. The tower frequencies were static, cutting Mathias off from his superiors if they were even alive, and the tactical channels used by the base garrison was choked with calls of need for support, but no authority rallying unit fragments into a cohesive response.

The head had been severed cleanly and the body of Salvador Base was jerking and twitching now through its death throes.

Mathias and his Cavaliers had to escape Salvador Base- not for reasons of cowardice, but for reasons of _necessity._

The fight here was finished even though the shooting and dying had not ended yet.

The flames leaping from the crumpled and unrecognizable mass of what had been a Lakota gunship only minutes before were subsiding at the site of its crash to earth on the tarmac between Hangars Three and Four. If Mathias had been a superstitious man, he might have taken this as a bad omen of what lay in store for his Cavalier Squadron as they made the perilous transition from ground to air in the midst of a full-press Zentraedi attack. Instead, he recognized that the Lakota had only come to earth here, having been morally wounded somewhere else over the base.

The hangar complex was at the base's center, and even the speediest attack would take some time to press this deep.

Time, within limits, was on his side.

The notion that the hangar complex was an island refuge was not solely Mathias's. Figures in combat dress- some wounded themselves- began to slog and stumble their way into the hangar buildings through the fully opened doors. They carried or dragged with them, half a dozen at first and then in a steady stream, wounded who could not bear themselves from the encompassing battlefield outside.

Mathias heard briefly over the sound of his own engines the horrid shrieking of the wounded upon whom the numbing effects of shock had not descended. These sounds were quickly muffled though as the canopy of Mathias's fighter lowered into place with the reassuring click of a good seal.

"Cavalier One to Squadron", Mathias said on his squadron's tactical frequency sounding surprisingly winded to himself, "Take-off is granted upon request. Rally twenty kliks due west."

"What about the base?", one of the junior pilots from B Flight asked, astonished that the order was to flee and not fight.

" _There is no fucking base-!"_ , Mathias snapped, " _NOW GO!"_

The rebuke was apparently successful as no additional words of descent were uttered from any in Mathias's command.

Mojo flipped the configuration mode control switch on his throttle and felt the heave of his Logan as thrust was diverted in a downward blast to lift the craft sufficiently to allow transformation. The sensation of borrowed Neuro-Pilot technology, a strange feeling of being outside of one's own body and joined with the machine settled over Mathias as arms and legs unfolded from the airframe, achieving Guardian configuration.

Mechanical legs answered the pilot's command to advance past the growing company of casualties still being borne into the hangar. Mathias focused on _the mission_ now- hoping it would somehow dull the sensation of envious eyes following him with the intensity that only the condemned could envy those who might live.

Mathias knew that his survival was less than assured however- an armed and combat-ready Logan at his command or not. He had not yet laid eyes on the mecha that garrison units were reporting, but they were closing from all directions from these accounts. –And if they could bring down a Lakota or an AJACS, they could do the same to a Logan taking to the air in the slower, more vulnerable Guardian configuration.

Elements of B Flight were already onto the tarmac from the hangars across from the one that had housed Mathias's Logan. Like their commander, they advanced into the open in Guardian mode, and for the same reason. With the runways cratered, the only escape into the sky was the direct, vertical route.

A pair, then three powered up their engines hastily and were free of the ground.

The first was a little more than fifteen meters aloft when the white-hot, rippling flash of four missiles struck it broadside- smashing the fighter/robot hybrid into flaming hail of debris that sent earthbound personnel scattering below and littered the tarmac with mechanical carnage.

"- _Where the hell-?!"_ , Mathias demanded- knowing the answer at an instinctive level before the question had fully formed.

The pilot scanned the north end of the tarmac desperately and dreaded finding the Zentraedi mecha that the garrison had identified standing there with weapons brought to bear.

He did not.

Only three generic threat indicator boxes appeared on the interior of Mathias's helmet visor as he visually swept the area. The objects they encased were airborne and weaving as they closed on the squadron leader and the rest of his Cavaliers, but were both too small to be any kind of mecha and too large and slow in their movement to be missiles.

 _Drones_ \- was the thought that immediately and logically came to the pilot's mind as his helmet was filled with the less ambiguous tonal indications of an active threat warning.

Radar missile lock.

Mathias snap-yawed his Guardian to allow the EU-11 ion cannon pod clutched in its right fist to engage as he settled the aiming reticule on the leading probe. Even as the squadron leader fired- easily obliterating the unmanned vehicle in a rapid pulse-stream of ion bolts- he realized he was fighting from the heart and not the head, and was in a disadvantageous tactical position.

 _Someone else_ recognized this as well.

A great volley of Zentraedi, short-range, multi-purpose missiles rose from behind the hangar and maintenance buildings at the north end of the tarmac like arrows fired by archers of old. Most continued skyward in a lazily arcing path of flight, while a handful leveled directly above the corrugated steel buildings to close directly on Mathias and other Logans that had now found their way into the air around him.

Unlikely as the prospect of confronting mecha-equipped Zentraedi had been- _before_ this night- Mathias and his pilots had rigorously trained sometime ago to recognize and defeat this class of weapon. Fortunately, that training returned in an instant.

The pilot, as quick as his reflexes were, was still nanoseconds behind the response of his Logan's countermeasure systems which automatically filled the air with clouds of radar-reflective chaff strips as the ECM module housed under the nose cannon bathed the entire spread of missiles with electro-magnetic noise.

Sensing that the best outcome at his present level of flight was still in the catastrophic range, Mathias firewalled his throttles and felt his spine compress as his Logan shot into a skyward retreat leaving the enemy, their missiles, and Salvador Base falling away below.

A great wave of heat and its thermal updraft bounced Mathias and his Logan violently as it overtook them in the ascent.

Mathias stole a quick glimpse of the area he had just escaped a moment earlier, and before the arcing missile salvo he'd seen fired had returned to earth. Now in the aftermath of the detonation of plasma-napalm warheads, the tarmac was quickly losing its recognizable characteristics.

Hangars that had been sound and solid moments earlier were softening and crumpling in their exposure to intense, weaponized heat. There were no signs of any of the personnel who had been scrambling for cover when Mathias had taken to the air, and the pilot knew from his single, split-second glimpse of the area that there would be none found in the aftermath.

There was _something_ below though- something that Mathias could not have seen from ground level on the tarmac. To the north end, beyond the aircraft support buildings and in the general region from which the missile attack had been launched- there was something to be seen from the advantage of altitude.

Three Zentraedi power armor suits- the female variety- and easily a dozen or more Battle Pods were now moving west around the cauldron of fire they had just created- lighting their path with the stunning brilliance of rapid-fire orange and blue. By comparison, the flicker of conventional automatic weapons fire- some of which had to be from ASC security and infantry troops- seemed pitiable at best.

This sight and the last dissolving evidence of at least three Logans of Mathias's command in the lake of plasma fire below clenched in the squadron leader's mind the fact that Salvador Base was lost.

The base may have been lost, but Mathias did not hold himself above a parting shot of vengeance as he abandoned a futile fight.

Flipping his weapon selector to the missile position, he put the aiming reticule on one of the armor suits at random. His combat computer made the selection of Hellfire missiles from the limited inventory carried by the Logan, and the pilot fired both.

Joined in a sweep of rockets and missiles fired by other Cavaliers who had escaped the tarmac, Mathias tracked his two weapons by the burn of their rocket motors as they rushed on the power armor suit and struck with a stunning, dual blast that was followed by a third, "secondary" explosion that toppled the mecha.

Mathias saw his squadron's retaliation rake the small Zentraedi unit in an attack that was more symbolically meaningful than game-changing.

He knew though he could not linger for a second attempt.

The pilot rolled his Guardian back slightly and flipped his configuration control switch back into "Fighter" mode. As he had practiced many times with a daredevil's glee, Mathias waited to feel his Logan realign into the form of an aircraft, and for the weightless sensation of stall.

At the moment he felt the latter, when his Logan was beginning to plummet by the tail from the sky at a 45º angle to earth- he punched the throttles to the firewall and engaged full afterburner. Mojo was rewarded with the slam of G-force that flattened him to his seat back as the Logan roared away into the night like a bullet from a rifle.

ASC Salvador Base fell away quickly, becoming a subdued glow in a sea of pitch black, like the last light of dying embers.

Mathias noticed this only peripherally as he suddenly became aware of his own heart pounding violently against his ribcage and the rush of blood through his ears. A chill swept over him as his flight suit tried to cool him through perspiration-soaked utility coveralls.

 _A not-so-clean get-away?-_

A get-way nonetheless.

"Sound-off, Cavaliers.", Mathias ordered sounding more demoralized than he would have liked, but far less than he felt.

He heard callsigns blurted out quickly, accompanied by a simple, unadorned, "here", but he was only able to keep track of the count and not the particular identities.

Ten.

Ten, plus himself-. Eleven.

Eleven out of sixteen.

Mathias recognized that "it" wasn't sinking in yet.

He didn't want it to- there was much he had to do before he could afford to feel anger, or grief, or any of the other emotions he knew would hit him with a freight train's subtlety later.

Right now, he had the bulk of a squadron carrying ground-attack armament, flying unescorted through airspace that now had to be considered unsecure.

He needed top cover for his pilots, and he needed it before more Zentraedi arrived- which he knew could not be a long time in coming.

Mathias switched through the ASC Air Force's common tactical bands and found them to be choked with traffic including the stern direction of air controllers for pilots to change to other frequencies for further instruction.

"Any control station, any control station- this is Cavalier One. Request transfer to a proximal Sector Control for direction and combat assignment. Over."

Through the jumble of overlapping messages, Mathias was still able to pick out the reply intended for him as though following a conversation in a crowded room.

"Cavalier One, Fox Den. What is your number and composition? Over."

Mathias became immediately concerned.

He and his squadron were squawking valid ASC IFF- the question from the ground controller of the sector with the callsign "Fox Den" implied that they were not able to read or interpret the IFF. At a minimum, this meant that they were not making the electronic identification challenge- if their radar and IFF systems were functioning at all. By natural extension of this, _anyone_ or _anything_ could be passing through that sector's airspace without any way for Fox Den to verify their claimed identity.

It was already turning into oen hell of a war.

"I'm Leader plus ten Logans.", Mathias replied after confirming at a glance that he was transmitting on coded air.

"Are you armed?", Fox Den asked, hope strong in the man's voice.

"That's affirmative.", Mathias replied, "We're loaded for ground trade. –But we're in the open and could use some top cover."

"We're showing no bandits in ASC airspace, Cavalier One- you can relax-."

Mathias felt his temper flare in the way that only a huge quantity of adrenaline in the blood would foster.

 _"Relax, my ass, Fox Den!"_ , Mathias snapped before regaining control, "Salvador Base has been overrun by _at least_ three Female Power Armor, and a dozen plus Battle Pods. Are you receiving?"

There was a pause, and then, "Cavalier One, did you say operational Power Armor and Battle Pods on the move in the area of Salvador Base?"

"No, dickhead, not _in the area of_ Salvador Base, in _THE FUCKING MIDDLE OF IT!_ "

Whether taken aback by Mathias's shortness and profanity or by the report itself- it took Fox Den a moment longer to reply.

"Cavalier One, observe proper communications protocol please."

Mathias bit back something that would have come across with significantly more "edge" than what he had hurled at Fox Den thus far.

"Fox Den, can you receive data streaming? I can transmit my sensor logs and you can hand it over to your J-2 for review-."

"Negative, Cavalier One- not at this time, but we will pass on that report. Over."

"Great- _happy to be of service-._ How about that top cover, Fox Den? Traffic is going to get thick up here before long-. Over."

"Stand by, Cavalier One. Give us a minute to find a nearby Blue Force pocket, and we'll vector you in-."

"That's Blue Force, _friendly_ \- right, Fox Den?", Mathias clarified, demonstrating gallows humor before he was even aware he was doing so.

"Roger that, One- _friendlies._ "

Action Commander Kevtok surveyed grimly the casualties inflicted by the strange, micronian mecha-aircraft that had wisely elected not to linger for a more enduring fight. Four Regults destroyed, and Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt's Nacht-Rau combat suit damaged significantly.

Kevtok understood the loss of the Regults and their norghil pilots- unfortunate as this was. Regults were minimalist expressions of mecha design with few substantial defensive qualities other than the safety provided to them by operating normally in great numbers. Lightly armored as they were, it was no surprise to the Serhot Ran officer that the micronian missiles had easily pierced their thin skins- killing instantly the pilots within.

The damage done to the Nacht-Rau was more perplexing and disturbing.

Both missiles that had struck Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt had struck his suit's left shoulder missile-launcher, compromising the launcher with the impressive savagery of their warheads. As designed, the Nacht-Rau's launcher exploded outward when several of its missiles detonated with the primary blast. This spared Nenopt, who was understandably stunned but otherwise perfectly functional- but what perplexed Kevtok was that the missiles had even reached him.

The automatic ECM in the crown of Nenopt's suit had been checked for full functionality before they had left the Transport Pod the day before- this system on all of their suits had been checked. Being fully functional, it should have immediately and automatically been directed to defeat any guided weapons threatening the suit.

The micronian missiles had tracked cleanly to target without showing the slightest sign of distraction.

Kevtok grappled with, then forced himself to concede that the micronians, while frail and ridiculously short in the numbers of warriors they could field had apparently dedicated much effort into the development of their weapons.

Naturally, this would make no difference in the inevitable outcome of the conflict that had been opened against them with an unmarred element of surprise- but on the individual level, this was a troubling revelation for Te'Dak Tohl Warriors.

Kevtok obliged himself to make it a high priority that the appropriate warning be disseminated as quickly as possible through the ranks once he was in a position to report it.

For now though, Kevtok had more immediate concerns.

The micronian warriors whose base this had been had now all either deserted their posts disgracefully, or had been isolated and were in the final stages of being slain.

Those who had abandoned the battle for flight into the jungle would find soon that the micronized norghil had volunteered in multitudes to participate in Kevtok's raid were in pursuit- driven by years of understandable frustration.

The micronians might have escaped an immediate death by fleeing from Kevtok's mecha, but their fate was nearly decided. Kevtok's micronized norghil lacked the benefit of their true size, of battle armor, and of advanced weaponry- but they were _warriors_ again.

They would not give up the pursuit until the last kill was made, and Kevtok did not attempt to delude himself into believing that even an order to desist from him could change this.

Even disciplined warriors had to be allowed to exact revenge from time to time.

Kevtok sensed that the skirmishes on the alien post all around him were quickly dwindling as the micronian warriors who had stood their ground to fight were overwhelmed by norghil. Fate might have recognized the micronians' bravery, but it garnered them no favor.

This quality at least warranted respect from an adversary.

Kevtok had no time to reflect on the admirable traits of his opponent though.

Lieutenant Moyrt was arriving from the south, down a single Regult, to join up at the center where Lieutenant Hyra and her fully intact unit that had just arrived.

"The southern perimeter to center is cleared, Lord.", reported Moyrt.

"As is the west to center.", Hyra added.

Kevtok had sent four Regults east to probe for any substantial resistance, where they had found none. Only the micronian skirmishers remained, and they were quickly reducing.

"Then disperse by pairs in support of the norghil.", Kevtok ordered, "Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt will remain with me and we will establish a command post here at the center position and activate the navigational beacon to guide our shock units down. I don't want a breathing micronian left within twenty _atohls_ by the time they arrive."

"Yes, Lord!", came the collective reply off of over three dozen sets of lips.

Pairs were quickly established and dispersed with equal speed. There was still some fighting to be had- asymmetric as it would be- and all wanted to be part of it.

Kevtok looked about him again. He had grown familiar through reconnaissance and surveillance of this outpost with its layout and how it had looked by daylight.

That was _yesterday_ , of course.

He was mildly interested in seeing how it would look by day after sunrise _today._

 **The California Coast,**

 **68 Km North of Los Angeles**

"Vigilante Squadron- feet wet."

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel "Jack" Winters had lost himself in the starry night. From just under 26,000m the Earth seemed a great distance away- its darkened curve only discernable from celestial firmament by the bow where the twinkling of stars terminated and the uniform inkiness of the Pacific began.

It was easy to lose one's self in the presence of such sights- and in truth, Winters had actively tried to do so. Some pilots around him were likely spinning their minds up to full burn thinking this would make them razor-sharp for the fight.

It might have worked for some- it was a personal choice.

Winters had done that in his youth and after many a sortie had come to realize he only entered the fight stressed with the effort of trying to be mindful of every detail around him.

He had learned and now knew how to navigate the "grey area" gulf between extreme focus and total distraction, and knew which latitude to keep that would allow him to enter the fray in his best state once the shooting began.

For now, that meant the Zen-like pursuit of appreciating a scene of natural splendor.

Experience with this _particular_ enemy had also taught Winters to take in these rare moments of beauty, because the Zentraedi had demonstrated the ability to take them away.

If things were to go the way of the end of the last war, there was a possibility that it would be a long time again before Winters might see the stars.

But Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni had called "feet wet" for her squadron, marking the moment when they had crossed from flight over land to flight over sea, and that was a sign that the moment to bare teeth was approaching rapidly.

"Knight Hawk Squadron- feet wet.", Winters announced, consulting his cockpit's central MFD to verify that the California coast was indeed falling away.

Winters had not quite made connection to the experience he'd chosen to recollect- that of his space flight and combat qualifications years before. The grandeur of that moment Winters now found to be just out of reach. He had left those qualifications longing to be able to return to space one day.

Now, ironically, there was the real possibility that given the right circumstances- he might.

"Werewolves- feet wet."

Winters looked to his 9 o'clock, south to where he could see the last, two-ship element of Mumuni's Vigilantes keeping station at three kilometers. Beyond them, three kilometers further south another element formed the next chain link in the line in the same way that Dodger and Pinball formed the link to Winters and Vice's right.

So on and so on, the three Valkyrie squadrons formed a line spanning over 140Km with the 1404th Werewolves on the left flank and Knight Hawk Squadron on the right, sweeping the sky westward in search of a fight.

Winters could not see the elements that marked the extreme ends of the formation- but generous intervals were the reason Mumuni had ordered a line almost immediately following "wheels up". There was no such thing as "top cover" from orbiting warships and their arsenal of energy weapons. A sparse formation however made for a poor target.

The breadth of the line would also force any Zentraedi fighters encountered to distribute themselves accordingly or risk envelopment. Even in doing so with superior numbers, Mumuni knew the Zentraedi would still be at a disadvantage at long and intermediate distances where the range and quality of missiles each side was bringing to the fight was key.

Spread as they were over the sky, the Valkyries could still reach farther and cover one another in a missile duel.

This, Winters knew, Mumuni was gambling would allow the Valkyries to whittle down a larger force to allow them a reasonable chance at staying in the fight when the battlespace shrank and quarters became _closer_.

"Half-Satans- feet wet."

It was _possible_ that it wouldn't come down to a knife fight, Winters reminded himself as the first of the trailing Adventurer II squadrons crossed over water.

The 333rd Half-Satans, 77th Harpies, 403rd Grey Owls, and 149th Thunderclaps trailed the Valkyrie line in a narrower but deeper box formation and were the reason that the greyhound-like fighters were not charging at full speed on toward battle.

They were also the element of the mission package that might prevent the Valkyries from having to directly enter the fight at all.

Despite his love affair with fighters that had spanned his professional life, and his particular fondness for the Valkyrie- Winters knew as all Veritech pilots did that the advanced, transformable fighter lacked the weapons-carrying capacity to allow it to be a single-platform solution to all air combat scenarios.

Whether offensively or defensively, the RDF-AF still needed a "pack mule" to bring volume of fire to bear.

The Adventurer II, though less "sexy" than the Valkyrie with its comparatively lumbering speed but significant ordinance capacity was ideal for that role.

This particular morning the draft horses of the RDF were heavily laden with 20 apiece of the anti-ship variant of the Falcon Reflex missile carried by the Valkyries, the AASM-4 "Griffin". Slower and with a significantly shorter range than its sub-light engine driven big brother, the Ballista- the Griffin was no less lethal and possessed the desirable quality of being able to be deployed from a wider variety of platforms- including the Adventurer II. Their heavy Protex warheads could inflict significant damage on a warship, and with near-nuclear yield in their explosive force were almost certainly lethal to the intended targets of this intercept mission.

There were Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pods coming down.

War games had predicted it in many scenarios in which the Earth's surface had not been flattened outright- and the tattered remains of satellite and ground-based surveillance had confirmed it. For the time, the movement of hostiles from orbit to ground was directed at the Americas and the Pacific Rim, and the indications were that the force of ferrying Transport Pods numbered in the _hundreds_ of thousands.

And there were certain to be more, Winters knew. Zentraedi never did _anything_ "small".

In that context, three Valkyrie squadrons and four Adventurer II attack squadrons seemed- _was_ \- insignificant.

But Edwards was the only base in the NORAMWEST "complex" that was functioning at a level to sortie aircraft against a landing force whose track indicated that they were moving in the direction of southern California.

They would have to hold the line until reinforcements arrived.

That was the conceptually simple purpose of the intercept force under Mumuni's command with the operational callsign, "Militia".

That reinforcement would have to be soon Winters also knew- or else it might be a very short war for three Valkyrie and four Adventurer II squadrons.

"Militia Leader, this is Prospector.", said a controller from an AWACS EC-33 who had assumed tactical authority and command and control functions over the intercept package from the moment of take-off, "You're exiting our AOR. Transitioning your C2 to Typhoon. Good hunting."

"Typhoon has C2.", Mumuni acknowledged, "Thanks for the ride, Prospector. Keep the door open- we won't be long. Typhoon, are you on-line?"

"Affirmative, Militia Leader- Typhoon is on-line and has C2. Link up at your ready."

"Militia Flight", Mumuni said immediately, "Switch to Typhoon's InfoLink feed and verify. Call out exceptions."

As the satellite constellation that normally provided a seamless, bi-directional connection to the RDF's "InfoLink" C4I system had been in a state of collapse at the time the mission package had taken off from Edwards, it was necessary to plug them into a redundant "socket" for the purposes of data sharing and collaborative combat systems communication. The AWACS had been provided with that capability to support InfoLink within its AOR, and connect to as many other C2 platforms as its encrypted communications systems could reach.

Hearing no "exceptions"- failures by her subordinates to connect to tTyphoon's InfoLink feed- Mumuni's next words came after a pause, "-Well then, we're looking for some mischief-. Can you assist?"

"Your vector is good, Militia Leader. Maintain course, speed, and altitude. Estimate outer BVR engagement envelope in three minutes. ROE is weapons free- engage upon request Militia Leader."

"Roger that, Typhoon.", Mumuni replied, "Three minutes."

Winters reached out to his control panel's central MFD and expanded the range on the integrated navigation/radar function out to 1,500Km. _Marilyn_ 's own powerful, phased-array SAR sensor package did not have the ability to see this distance- but borrowing the far more powerful radar of the AWACS through InfoLink, Winters was able to extend his "vision".

What he saw, with the exception of Tyhoon to the northeast with a flight of Valkyries flying guard and a dozen or so commercial flights far out into the Mojave who were rushing to the closest commercial port that could take them was nothing.

Winters expanded the range again out to 2,000Km.

Nothing.

2,500Km.

A cluster of contacts in red appeared just inside of the top edge of the MFD screen- compressed with the scale setting into a singular, blinking blob- but identified and designated clearly by IFF as "hostile".

Winters tapped the "cluster" on the screen and by muscle-memory selected his desired display function option from the menu that appeared without having to look for it.

A smaller window opened in the main display layer, showing a "zoomed" representation of the "hostiles".

Winters found himself looking at a column of three box formations of Re-Entry Transport Pods- a hundred or more per formation- with a substantial escort force of Gnerl Fighter Pods leading and flanking.

The moment that Winters had tried to offset, but the one he had known would come sooner or later was on him suddenly.

The tight little knot in his gut formed and as it clenched and grew, the irony of moments in the past when Winters had felt mild pangs of guilt at having an edge over malcontent Zentraedi was not lost on him. Some par of him had always wanted the false nobility of a fight on equal footing-.

 _Be careful what you ask for, old chap…._

The rate of closure with the Zentraedi landing force seemed incredible to Winters despite decades of experience with supersonic flight. Kilometers of range were devoured as the aliens still 10,000 meters above the Valkyrie line eased on a gradual decent into the upper stratosphere, slowing gradually in the sparse air from sub-orbital speed.

The logical, tactical portion of Winters' mind assured him that this actually provided Militia Flight an advantage- that the Zentraedi would soon find themselves charging into a wall of missiles that they were travelling too fast to evade by maneuver.

The primal part- the little angel whose lineage had provided survival instinct to the human race since they had hunted wooly mammoths with stone-headed spears and the little demon who was double-knotting Winters' gut- now told him that he was doing the aerial equivalent of standing in the path of a charging bull.

All to the gentle, rhythmic- _thump…thump…thump_ \- of the sensor display refreshing with each pulse of Typhoon's radar.

2,400Km.

The appreciation of the starry sky and remembrance of the elation of his first space flight had now retreated to the recesses of Winters' brain. Rate of closure, angle of attack, the high-altitude performance characteristics of Gnerls and the probable kill ratio of weapons Militia Flight was carrying to the number of inbound Zentraedi meshed in equations whose ultimate solution was the answer to the question of whether Winters could expect to walk away from the approaching fight.

2,312Km.

"Militia Flight, listen up!"

Colonel Mumuni's voice came to those who were beginning to drift in their extreme focus with the same sobering effects as a splash of cold water to the face.

"We're going to execute a two-part sequence starting at maximum range with our Adventurers. I want a staggered release of all your ordinance- Griffins then Falcons. _No target overlap on the Griffins_ -. What we don't destroy will scatter and open up the formation for the Falcons to start work on the escorts."

"As soon as you're empty, Adventurers- you turn tail for home. Airspace between here and Edwards is still secure."

"Valkyries, the Adventurers will poke the nest- when the hornets come out, we'll star our work. We'll knock down what we can with missiles BVR, and the ones we can't we'll take down as close to the deck as we can get them where we'll have the performance edge."

" _Sure-_.", someone laughed nervously, "What could _possibly_ go wrong?.."

Mumuni could have pounced on the speaker, but a number of other chuckles on the line told her it was an expression of common anxiety- and as long as it was not contrary to her authority should be allowed to pass- which she did.

The anonymous voice had a valid point of which all were aware. Each Adventurer II, though carrying a primary load of Griffins also rounded out its capacity with an additional eight Falcon missiles that would allow the attack aircraft to participate in covering their own retreat. This would be helpful, but when one added the collective air-to-air weapons load of the Valkyries to that of the Adventurer IIs – the arithmetic did not result in a balanced equation.

There were more bandits than the "Militia" had bullets.

And this was the _first_ wave.

Winters was aware of the relentless beat of InfoLink refreshing his fighter's tactical display. By comparison to his own heart that he found now to be racing, it felt ominously slow like a drumbeat heralding the march of the condemned to a theatrically embellished execution.

 _Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…_

2,247Km.

"Say, Preacher-.", Winters said trying to sound optimistic, "Any word back yet from The Almighty?"

Wayne was hesitant in his reply, taking the question far more seriously than Winters had intended.

"Working on it, Jack… The Lord's answering a lot of calls tonight I think."

"Keep at it then- and remind him nicely about that good thing I did for those people at that place back whenever-."

"You're _bargaining,_ Jack."

"Perpetually."

2,201Km

 _Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…_

Silence settled over the common frequency again.

No conversation, though conversation should have been shunned in these circumstances anyway. Only the relentless beat of cycling system processes, the gentle hiss of air from the life support systems, and pounding of hearts in chests.

And it was the bearing of the wait that had Winters ready to scream for the simple need to release the tension.

-But there were other tried and proven practices also.

Winters pursed his lips to give voice to the old cavalry tune that had been rattling around inside of his skull for some time now- but he found his lips to have gone dry and he with no spit left to correct this. And all the while the horrible little imp that had gotten the better of men in combat for centuries, urging them on to the foolish, tickled the impulse center of the pilot's brain loose his missiles and _just get on with it_ …

 _Thump…..Thump…...Thump…..Thump…._

" _Trailer for sale or rent._

 _Rooms to let for fifty cents,_

 _No phone, no pool, no pets._

 _I ain't got no cigarettes-."_

Winters laughed as he recognized Mumuni's XO, Lt Col "Dusty" Drake's particularly bad singing voice that was likely making Roger Miller flip in his grave. The horrid rendition of the long-dead singer's trademark song that had crackled its tale repeatedly on Roxanna's juke box now fell in perfect step with the pulse of InfoLink.

While harsh on the ears, it was still somehow calming to the nerves.

Winters half-expected Militia Flight's "amateur microphone night" to be quelled by Mumuni quickly, until he heard Switchblade join in herself with a nervy, giddy snicker- at which point the proverbial flood gates of mediocre singing talent opned.

Winters recalled with some amusement a psy-war briefing he'd read about the stunning effect music had had on Zentraedi during their pursuit of _SDF-1_ , and how exposure to human culture since that time would likely result in a null effect should the circumstances come about again.

Hearing his helmet fill with the unskilled voices of dozens of pilots singing in near unison caused Winters to differ.

 _This_ might scare the Zentraedi _more_ than the horrible, syrupy, pop-ballads of Lynn Minmei.

 _"Aw, but- two hours of pushin' a broom buys a-_

 _Eight by twelve, four-bit room._

 _I'm a man of means, by no means-_

 _King of the road…"_

2,147Km

 _"Third boxcar, midnight train-_

 _Destination- Bangor, Maine._

 _Old, worn-out suit `n shoes-_

 _I don't pay no union dues-."_

Winters continued to monitor the path and descent of the aliens who were still out of reach. Their altitude advantage had lessened by half among the Gnerls who were now clearly assuming a screening formation- advised no doubt by the Zentraedi counterpart to "Typhoon" somewhere high above.

The Re-Entry Transports were staying high, likely needing the minimal resistance of the ultra-thin air to maintain their speed.

Clearly the transports knew themselves to be the hunted and were hoping that rapid merge and then separation would allow at least some of their numbers to make planetfall.

Winters was happy to let them continue under that tactically flawed assumption.

2,087Km

 _"I smoke old stogies I have found-_

 _Short, but not too big around._

 _I'm a man of means, by no means-_

 _King of the road…"_

2,041Km

 _"I know every engineer on every train-_

 _All of their children, and all of their names._

 _And every hand-out in every town,_

 _And all the locks that ain't locked when no one's around-."_

2,002Km

"Uncage `em, Adventuerers!"

Mumuni's unpolished order ceased the singing as abruptly as if she had pressed an invisible "STOP" button, and more importantly engaged her command's minds uniformly on the task now at hand.

Weapons Systems Officers in Adventurer IIs finalized the flight programs of the Griffins carried by their aircraft. InfoLink recommended targets for each weapon, sorting out the intricacies of targeting overlap in nanoseconds. Secondary targets, in the unlikely case of overshoot or the even more remote chance of a "miss" would be selected on the fly by the "genius" weapons without need of consultation with their human masters.

Falcon Reflex missiles were programmed with an even less restrictive program that gave them the liberty to auto-acquire and destroy the first Gnerl they encountered with the single prerequisite of verifying that they were not competing with another Falcon for the same target.

" _Fox One!_ "

The call repeated over and over as Adventurer II pilots released their Griffin and Falcon Reflex missiles.

Below and to port, Winters saw the weapons passing- accelerating quickly to their hypersonic, maximum speed before beginning their gradual, target-intercept ascent. Protoculture compression reaction engines drove the weapons with virtually no visible exhaust trail and a negligible light emission, allowing the weapons to slip quickly and easily out of sight.

They would be reliant on Typhoon's radar to guide them semi-actively for the next 1,300 kilometers before their own seeker heads could acquire and allow them to operate with complete autonomy. Even if the AWACS's external guidance were to be lost, both variants of the Reflex missile could fall back on the information they had already been provided to formulate independently their own logical search patterns to locate a target.

No matter the method of target intercept, the Reflex missiles now in flight were almost certain to live up to the motto popular to their designers: " _One shot is one killed."_

Winters was just losing visual track on the outgoing Reflex missiles when the Adventurer II pilots began to call, "Bingo missiles".

They were now flying "empty" and providing no added value to the mission package.

"Take it home, Adventurers.", Mumuni ordered, "We'll cover your egress."

"Roger that, Militia Leader.", replied the Adventurer II package leader, "We'll put the beer on ice for your return."

Element by element, the Adventurer IIs dropped out of trailing formation and banked sharply away to head again for land as quickly as they could sustainably fly. Other than the Valkyries still advancing toward the inbound hostiles and the slim to modest possibility of soliciting protection from other "friendlies" who might still get into the fight- the Adventurer IIs were virtually defenseless.

Winters could not fathom what could compel a pilot to want to fly a lumbering target like one of the retreating attack aircraft into a fight, but he had great admiration for those pilots who felt the compulsion.

"Typhoon, Militia Leader- give us a vector for attack."

"Roger that, Militia Leader. Come right to course three-one-zero and ascend to angels thirty-two. Push it up to the stops."

"Militia Flight, you heard the man.", Mumuni said to her subordinates, "Time to earn your combat pay."

Winters gently banked right into a climb that gradually turned _Marilyn_ 's nose northwest. With the silken smoothness of flight at such an extreme altitude, it was easy to forget the speed one was travelling at- but a sudden maneuver could quickly remind the careless pilot. –And the opening moments of an engagement were no time to risk GLOC.

Once on the new course though and on the steady climb toward 32,000m, it was safe to spur the thoroughbred Valkyrie from a leisurely trot to a full gallop.

With Vice still on his starboard wing, Winters pushed his throttles slowly up to the firewall with the associated reward of the rising whine and roar of the fighter's twin PFR/PR-2001-B engines. The sound ended abruptly with a small bump as the Valkyrie exceeded the speed of sound, but the steady vibration of applied power remained.

Mach 2, and 3 came up quickly and fell behind before Winters had to level out to his assigned altitude. Now more than ever, with the stars all around and no engine noise to compete with his breathing, Winters felt again as though he had returned to space.

The waking dream was a decadence that he had no time to indulge in though.

Winters' central MFD was showing him that the fusillade of Griffins and Falcons fired by the Adventurer IIs were beginning to activate and seek autonomously.

The placid and pristine night was about to get brutal.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha, a veteran of many campaigns against _norghil_ , and a respectable number against Invid was well acquainted with combat and violence.

He had watched the rapid closure of alien missiles fired from far outside of the reach of his Gnerl, and had known that Fate's whim would quickly decide death for some in the combined assault force his fighter group was assisting to escort.

What Daehlarha was not prepared for was the startling lethality of the weapons that the aliens had loosed upon the assault force.

In rapid succession, almost as a chain reaction, missiles had decimated the flight of Re-Entry Transports that Daehlarha and the other fighter group commanders had been charged to defend. And though he could not be certain, the point lieutenant was almost certain it had been a _single missile_ per transport that had caused inflicted so great a loss.

Daehlarha had been high above one such Re-Entry Transport when it had met its end with the leading wave of alien weapons. The blast, which he did not see directly but had nearly caused him to lose control of his Gnerl, lit the sky all around him. And when Daehlarha had looked down instinctively, only a fiery, churning cloud of unrecognizable wreckage could be seen falling aft where a Re-Entry Transport had been the moment before.

Quick glimpses and impressions of opening moments of battle were all around as other transports were shattered in progression back through the column formation. The concussive force of primary and secondary explosions could be seen to snap the wings off of Gnerls who had been holding station too close, or spun others hopelessly out of control.

Even the rugged Nacht-Rau combat suits, piloted within the transport column formation by their Serhot Ran warriors were tossed and forced to abandon the cover from enemy sensors provided by the transports.

As quickly and impressively as the aliens had raked the assault force with destruction, it was something Daehlarha had glimpsed- or _thought_ he had glimpsed- in those intense moments of chaos that was oddly the greatest concern to him.

He was nearly certain that as the alien missiles had merged with the leading elements of Gnerls- _norghil_ units trained but still wet from the tube and placed on point to absorb the expected damage of the alien resistance- he saw single missiles appear to _split_ into several. In this way, Daehlarha had seen clearly a single missile obliterate four Gnerls flying in formation before the explosion of the Re-Entry Transport he'd been flying over had thrown his fighter, requiring all of his mental focus and effort to maintain control.

These pilots were no more or less dead than they would have been had they been killed individually by four separate weapons- but the disconcerting element that Daehlarha could not get past was that the insidiously simple concept was one that the _aliens_ were fielding, and that not even the Te'Dak Tohl had a counterpart for.

Perhaps the aliens were not so unsophisticated in the practice of war as what had been briefed.

"Jack-.", Preacher said with a calm but joyless tone of voice, "The Lord just got back to me and said he's leaning to our favor."

From 500Km, the pulse and glitter of detonating Griffin Reflex missiles could still be distinguished from the comparatively muted glow of stars.

"Well he _ain't_ a friend of whoever's on the receiving end of _that._ ", Vice said with equal parts spite and pity.

A glance at his center MFD showed Winters that the number of Zentraedi transports moving toward the California coast had been halved at least and possibly reduced by two-thirds. But the survivors were already forming up into sparse parallel columns and pressing on, undeterred.

Of more immediate concern to the "Militia" Valkyries was the "swarm" of Gnerl Fighter Pods that like a fighter having received a stunning but not finishing cross to the head were beginning to recover and come off the ropes.

And also now, there was something else as well.-

"Tally!", called out Mumuni, clearly also seeing the new threat, "Power Armor!"

A glance at his MFD showed Winters an IFF quick recognition window had opened showing the "mug shot" of a _Queadlunn-Rau_ power armor suit. Oddly though, the box was bracketed by a flashing yellow border indicating that the IFF system was admitting that its identification was only _probable_.

Winters dismissed the peculiarity as being a result of Typhoon's extreme range and the burden on the AWACS's systems associated with processing and management of so much data. It was the only explanation as Zentraedi fielded only two variants of power armor, and the type provided to the male sect had no atmospheric flight capabilities.

 _Queadlunn-Rau_ however meant _Quadranos_ \- the female warrior elite and their renowned skill and tenacity in combat.

" _Battle Braziers!- They're females!_ ", Piglet from Dalton's section of B-Flight called out, giving voice to what InfoLink was already telling all.

"Great-!", Maverick chipped in with false optimism, "A little chocolate and Midol and we've got this in the bag!"

Winters wanted to share in Maverick's well-constructed front of joviality on the matter, but like the other pilot he knew from simulations and war games that Gnerls and Female Power Armor were a deadly combination. The Gnerls could be expected to perform the offensive role for the Zentraedi force in the BVR engagement, all the way down to "knife-fighting" range, at which point the Queadlunn-Rau could engage with their vastly superior short-range weaponry.

Winters had been killed by Quadranos and their lethal war machines enough times in simulation to know that he did not want to be within reach of the swarms of short-range missiles they could loose on a target, or to get into a turning battle with an opponent who could change their axis of movement with as little effort as he could execute a snap-roll.

"Target the Quadranos!- _Weapons free!"_ , Colonel Mumuni ordered, clearly thinking through the same tactical scenario as Winters had been, " _Do not_ get into a dogfight with them!"

Despite rules of conduct, there were moments that Winters had a great urge to kiss his superior.

The range on the leading Gnerls who were dividing into more tactically sound four-ship elements slipped under 400Km, allowing _Marilyn_ 's radar to assume acquisition and tracking functions independent of the AWACS, "Typhoon". InfoLink still networked the Valkyries and prevented targeting overlap as Winters uncaged and assigned his four Falcon Reflex missiles.

Selecting the "Split-2/Elect" attack profile, the pilot enabled the genius weapons with the option of identifying and auto-selecting a new "target pair" based on the estimated likelihood of a double-kill. In a target-rich environment in which the objective was to "thin the herd", it was a better use of the multi-warhead Falcon than selecting one of the "Lock" profiles that identified for the missile the pilot's desired target for destruction.

A shrill tone filled Winters' ears as his missiles indicated their readiness for flight.

" _Fox Three!"_

The coded term reflected that the Falcons were being launched within the engagement sphere in which they would leave the rails as "active" weapons- homing autonomously using their own radars. The Adventurer IIs had loosed their missiles "Fox One", at a range minutes earlier where the Falcons and Griffins were dependent on Typhoon's reflected radar energy to guide them in "semi-active" mode to the range where their own seeker heads could take over.

It was an exercise that made little difference to Winters as he verbally documented his attack on his flight recorder, but one that analysts could be counted upon to ping pilots on if they did not report accurately. But by now, it was second nature.

 _Marilyn_ felt immediately lighter as weapons left her inner stations at one-second intervals and began to respond to the controls more like a fighter as the bump of the missiles' wash quickly subsided.

By Winters' estimation the second, smaller fusillade of missiles would reach their targets at roughly the same time that the Valkyries could loose the last of their BVR weapons. The Basilisks were every bit as reliable and lethal in their element as the Falcons, but lacked the "sucker punch" of multiple warheads. They were however the last bit of "longer reach" that the Valkyries had over their Gnerl counterparts, and would decide just how many of them there would be when the fight entered the "slugging match" stage.

"Vice-.", Winters said to his wingman who would be supporting him in that capacity in minutes, "When this turns into a furball, and it _will_ -. Watch for the strays. We're going to have them too scattered for them to think about big formation tactics, so watch for the strays. The buggers with the brains to recognize that this is going to be a one-on-one show will be the ones with enough experience to make a real go at it-. We're going welter-weight style on this one."

" _Jab and move, jab and move_ -.", Vincenz said, asserting his understanding, "You just make sure to land the jabs on our lady friends-."

Winters laughed mirthlessly, "-I train and wait a dozen years for a stand-up fight, and I start by brawling with women-. _Great..._ "

Winters saw that the first Falcons released by the Valkyries were beginning to penetrate the leading line of Gnerl elements, seeking the loose two and four-suit elements of _Queadlunn-Rau_ intermingling with Gnerls toward the escort formation's center.

His target acquisition system and combat computer also began to identify Gnerls that were coming into range to be targets for _Marilyn'_ s Basilisk missiles.

Despite the temptation, Winters elected to keep his Basilisks caged for a few moments longer. Once the Falcons had done their work and the composition and sum total of the enemy was figured, the best use of these weapons would become clear.

There was not going to be a perfect combat scenario in which the Valkyries would peel back the layers of the enemy onion one by one and reducing them to nil. In some combination, Gnerls and Quadrano-operated Queadlunn-Rau would close with the Valkyries into furball range.

If on no other point, Switchblade had been right about one thing Winters knew- the Valkyrie pilots _would_ be earning their combat pay this morning.

An All Platform Release, Multipurpose, Semi-Active, Long Range, Multi-warhead AMSLM-4 "Falcon" missile, indistinguishable from any other in the swarm of 192 released by the Valkyries with the exception of its serial number and the hastily scribbled greeting of, " _WELCOME TO EARTH!"_ written in grease pencil on the warhead casing steered itself through gaps in Gnerl elements that human reflexes would have been too slow to navigate.

The weapon's ATGC-8 tactical guidance computer worked in perfect coordination with its subordinate microprocessors to monitor the track of its targets and regulate the power and direction of vectored thrust to position the missile for optimal intercept.

It had been released with the instruction to seek a specific _Queadlunn-Rau_ combat suit as an intercept mark, and to divide its load of four, Mk-7 independent warheads evenly between the mark and a proximal target not already selected by another Falcon. When the ATGC-8 had been unable to deconflict a target overlap problem with the other missiles in the swarm through InfoLink, it opted without hesitation for the liberty it had been granted to select a new target pair.

The leading cluster of Zentraedi combat suits was spoken for with a half dozen exceptions that could not be aligned by the computer's calculation for an effective "Split-2" engagement. The next cluster in trail was less picked-over, and provided the missile a choice of options that fit its attack profile.

The genius weapon steered itself to the point in space it predicted to be most advantageous for warhead release, oblivious in all of its complex computations that it was designing its own suicide.

With nanoseconds to release point, the missile's warhead housing panels blew free and were swept away by the slipstream of hypersonic flight, and the warheads ejected from the delivery platform. In pairs, the Mk-7 warheads fired their terminal flight motors at a calculated angle to not only intercept their targets, but to make contact with their known "weak" areas and better ensure a kill.

Lieutenant Hralm of the 762nd Serhot Ran had not had enough time to feel fear between the instant when he realized that his Nacht-Rau combat suit was being actively targeted by an alien missile, the moment when he realized his suit's focused-energy countermeasure system was having no effect on the weapon's acquisition, and when he felt the enormous, concussive double-blow.

Air was still rushing from his lungs, and though he could not hear it through bleeding and dulled ears- air was beginning to hiss from ruptured seals in the suit's pressure layer as his power armor tumbled out of control and out of formation.

Hralm resisted the instinct to fight his machine's tumble, clinging instead to his training to relax his body and to allow the suit to stabilize.

An eternity spanning ten seconds elapsed before Hralm's alternating view of starry sky and darkened sea was replaced by a constant and perfect black of the world below. His instrumentation which had fluttered with the twin missile strike normalized and confirmed that he was face down and also in a spin. Firing his suit's booster with maximum opposing yaw countered the spin and had him into controlled flight again in seconds.

It was as the world stabilized beneath him that Hralm felt himself pricked all over by the cold spines of delayed distress.

It was also the moment when he saw the remains of another Nacht-Rau – severed gruesomely at the waist into two halves- tumbling toward the sea.

Hralm knew well every Warrior in his unit well and those of the other Serhot Ran units in the landing force by name at least.

The lieutenant realized that his suit's Nador rifle was no longer in its grasp, and that a system status warning was advising him that the Nacht-Rau's hip and leg missile launchers were off-line from one of the two enemy weapons that he now realized had struck him low and from behind.

In spite of this however, he had cause for Warrior's vengeance- a mandate to draw blood for a comrade's blood spilled, and Hralm was determined as he powered at full throttle in pursuit of the landing force that had left him behind to fulfill that obligation.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha had never believed in Fate in moments of calm in the reverent way he saw other Warriors speak of it. It was simply a convenient way to explain the random, and to comfort one's self in thinking that there were _rules_ to all things- and that if one adhered to them, one might put off the impenetrable mysteries of Death and what lay beyond.

Daehlarha, in the presence of other Warriors, had given Fate its due observation- if only in form and not true devotion.

During battle though- Daehlarha found that he _vacillated_ in his position of belief.

Fate was _real_ because twice missiles had passed close enough to his fighter's canopy to have been snatched from the air had he been able to reach out for them.

Fate was a _lie_ told to weak-minded norghil because the alien fighters who had twice loosed missiles on the now decimated landing force were now in range to be themselves fired upon- and Daehlarha's targeting system would not acquire.

The lie of Fate's existence was after all preferable to discovering it to be real, and having chosen to side against you.

Daehlarha waited as his sensors cycled again as they had three times already. This time though, instead of a jittery display- the tactical sensor display flashed rows of meaningless numbers and went dark.

The pilot reached out and manually reset the system, hoping to restore even the reduced functions he had seen only moment before. He was not rewarded by so much as the meaningless rows of numbers and symbols he had seen. The screen remained dark, and his systems status display told him that he was witnessing a hardware failure from which sensor functions could not be recovered.

Fate was a vile, vindictive creature that reveled in bringing misery on those who dared not worship it- even for a moment…

" _You're fucking kidding me!.."_

Vice's profane exclamation of disbelief, while breaking most of the rules of combat communication protocol were not unwarranted, and certainly not an isolated thought.

Falcon Reflex missiles had swept the Quadranos like God's own sword- registering _hundreds_ of hits.

As those combat suits fell from the sky, burning in the minds of the pilots who had fired the missiles upon them- a third to nearly half eventually pulled themselves out of the plummet to earth and returned onto the course flown by their comrades.

"I'm _so_ getting a fuckin' refund on the part of my taxes that goes to RDF Material Command!", spat Vice, his blood now as "up" as Winters had ever witnessed, "They send us to fight hundred-to-one odds and give us a _load of DUDS!.._ "

Winters, sympathetic to and in agreement with Vice's position was nonetheless focused on the Zentraedi who were now actively trying to kill him.

The remaining transports and a vastly reduced detachment was now to Militia Flight's rear, to the southeast- out of reach of anything the Valkyries still carried in inventory. They were on a descent now, slowing- likely opting to get to ground as quickly as possible to offset the chances that more Griffins would rise up to meet them.

And the fact that there were not was puzzling to Winters.

The force of Re-Entry Transports, still over a hundred strong was within reach of ground-based, long range missiles from Edwards and inside of the tracking range of any number of AWACS radar systems.

Why was the sky not filling with SAM fire?

Seeing the great beast that was the bulk of the surviving Zentraedi escorts complete its sluggish, unwieldy, collective turn in the direction of Militia Flight reminded the squadron leader that the transports were no longer his concern.

Gnerls and Queadlunn-Rau power armor (oddly still only being classified by IFF as "probable") were beginning to merge with the great hail of Basilisks the Valkyries had hurled at them in what was being identified by Typhoon and InfoLink as "Kill Box 4". The medium-range weapons had locked cleanly from the moment of uncaging and had flown true from the rails- but the math was indisputable. Even if every Basilisk scored a "kill"- the Valkyries were still going to have to get in close to use the only weapons left to them- dogfighting missiles and guns.

Fortunately though, the Valkyrie's designers had provided other methods of evening the odds against a numerically superior force.

As long as the Zentraedi kept trying to acquire the Valkyries with their attack radar, the RDF fighters' "offensive" ECM system would continue to use their own radars to burn out the Zentraedi sensors and blind them.

"Just pray they're stupid enough to keep trying to paint us-.", Winters pled, consciously asking in his own atypical way for the grace of The Almighty.

"Workin' it, Jack!"

-And of course Preacher was _also_ on the task.

The sky above and to the southwest of Militia Flight rippled in a ribbon of simultaneous explosions as Basilisks met their targets. Unlike the initial strike of Griffin Reflex missiles on Zentraedi transports, which only hinted at the violence that had manifested itself- these targets were significantly _closer_ and the effectiveness of the RDF weapons _clearer._

Some instances of a Basilisk finding its target were marked by the flash of the detonating warhead. Others- fewer, more dramatic instances followed the initial detonation with a fireball falling away from the flight of Zentraedi with the wreckage spiraling toward the sea trailing streamers of flame.

And again- curiously- some "hits" on Queadlunn-Rau power armor suits resulted in the mecha tumbling for a distance before returning to controlled flight.

" _Son-of-a-bitch…_ ", Winters muttered, vaguely aware of the irony that the Queadlunn-Rau were piloted exclusively by _female_ Zentraedi Warriors.

Vice might have made an accurate statement in the process of making a rash one- Militia Flight could have been carrying at least _some_ "duds".

"Bandits, tally-ho!", called Captain Peter "Dodger" Lindsay from a narrowed distance off Vice's starboard wing, "Twelve o'clock high, a dozen plus!"

Winters knew the "bandits" Dodger was speaking of by their position- but the squadron leader was only visually tracking them by the target indicator boxes projected onto the interior of his helmet visor. Dodger was twelve years his junior, and had admittedly keener eyes to work with, but-.

Within first one, and then successively all the indicator boxes Winters gazed upon, black flecks that stood out slightly darker than the sky behind them- devoid at this point of any recognizable shape.

These were his first glimpse of the enemy though.

Vice, Dodger, and Dodger's wingman Capt "Pinball" Ott, hand not _bunched up_ , but had tightened up this portion of Mumuni's contracting "line" to form a very loose "finger four" formation. Winters had been of a mind to order it anyway, wanting the offensive and defensive versatility inherent in the pairing of two, two-ship elements.

"They're coming in too hot-.", Winters noted as the black flecks took on clear form as Gnerls. The bandits had either already lost their radars, or had shut them off for fear of losing them because Winters' threat warning system was not detecting attack radar emissions.

The Gnerls meant to make a slashing run with their guns.

"Get ready on my hack to chop throttle, apply brakes and flaps, and climb! We'll follow Tail-Ed Charlie down and start taking the fight to the deck. _Stay out of their bloody cone of fire!_ "

Winters braced himself- this was going to hurt.

The Gnerls closed, seeming to glide in lethal majesty into a position high above, but still ahead of the Knight Hawk element of four Valkyries. Their angle of attack was extreme, Winters knew- _too extreme_ to easily alter, Winters _hoped._

" _Hack!_ "

Winters jerked _Marilyn'_ s throttles back to little more than an idle and applied 50% airbrakes and flaps, which automatically unswept the Valkyrie's variable-sweep wings as well.

The world's largest invisible rugby player struck Winters in a flying tackle at a full run from behind, throwing him forward into his harnesses as the Valkyrie's airspeed bled rapidly off. The pilot fought to keep his head up and eyes outside of the cockpit as he pulled the stick back into his gut.

 _Marilyn'_ s nose pitched up with a groan of the airframe that Winters heard over his own strain against Newton's sadistic edicts. A maneuver that should have flattened him into his seat only eased the effects of the continuing, rapid deceleration of the fighter.

Winters was able though to fix eyes on the Gnerls who were still locked into their insanely steep dive. They had gambled on their speed and altitude advantage to execute a slashing run, but had foolishly ignored the possibility of an overshoot.

As they dropped below _Marilyn'_ s nose and tore by in an unsuccessful merge that was well outside of the 45º "cone" of fire they could sweep with their nose-mounted particle beam tri-cannon, Winters was sure that their flight leader was beginning to understand his or her mistake.

It was going to cost them.

" _Break and pursue!"_ , Winters ordered, retracting the speed brakes and flaps before rolling his fighter to port onto her back and then pulling the nose through level flight and into a dive. Although the Valkyrie had slipped out of supersonic flight, its speed was still great enough to make the maneuver grueling with a rapid pile-up of G-force that came with the directional change.

Winters lost the stars and sky as the fighter's nose dipped below the horizon and came to point at the same steep angle of attack as its former aggressors turned prey- who were now also presenting their tails.

 _Marilyn'_ s combat computer systems instantly seized upon the irresistible targets. The "Fury" dogfighting missiles on the outer weapon stations and the smaller Asp "mini-missiles" in their launcher pods were aware of the potential targets from the moment that their seeker heads were pointed in the Gnerls' direction and they began to fill the Valkyrie's cockpit with the "growl" of target acquisition.

They required only that the pilot assign a specific target out of the many for them and to pull the trigger.

Seductive as the option was, Winters possessed a level of tactical thought that exceeded the missiles' in both practicality and forethought. The Gnerls were giving Winters' a fighter pilot's wet dream of a near-zero angle deflection shot, and with little ability to maneuver defensively.

While their dive speed was opening the range, this was a "gun" shot if ever a pilot had been presented one.

Also, Winters knew, this fight was still bound to be an endurance match, and he wanted to keep the missile option as long as possible.

The Furies and Asps would stay caged a little longer.

Flipping his weapon-selector into the notch for employment of the Valkyrie's laser cannons, Winters was rewarded with the appearance of the aiming reticule on the interior of his visor. He had hit target drones with regularity at 6,000 meters in level flight, and had even been known to score a hit at 7,000.

Gnerls were considerably larger than target drones, and their range had only opened to just under five kilometers.

" _Fox Four!"_

The night filled with laser bolts fired at a cyclic rate of 3,600 per minute- their lurid red glow muted by the pilot's night optics to a more subdued wash of milky green.

"Tail-End Charlie"- holding the rear covering position of the Gnerl flight was saturated through the tail with the barrage, losing the high and port engine in a flash of secondary explosions, before losing the port wing that was already under tremendous stress in the dive to structural failure.

The Gnerl, now hopeless to recover, tumbled out of formation and out of control, spinning out of sight into the darkness.

Winters consciously put the knowledge that Gnerl Fighter Pods lacked an ejection seat, or any device to save the life of the pilot in the event of emergency out of his mind.

A blaze of laser fire to starboard marked Dodger's entry into the fight, and like his squadron leader, a hit was scored on a relatively stationary target. Bits flew free of the target without any spectacular indications of the laser bolts finding their target- but as debris continued to come off the airframe, both wings and the single vertical rudder ctore away with a large portion of the high engine.

 _Scratch two._

The remaining Gnerls had known from the moment of overshot that they had transitioned into defensive posture. The sudden loss of two comrades at the rear of their formation confirmed the knowledge.

Unable to see the Valkyries in the large blind spots their design created for their pilots, the Gnerls broke their already loosened formation and began to corkscrew to bleed off airspeed to allow themselves the ability to maneuver without risk of snapping off their own wings in the ever-thickening air.

The brief window of "easy kills" was over, Winters recognized, moving his weapon-selector back to missile mode.

Furies and Asps growled angrily, like wild animals cornered and ready to fight.

" _Bandits!"_ , Vice called, perfectly performing the wingman's role of minding the defensive while his "leader" performed the offensive work, " _Four high at five, comin' down!"_

Winters selected a barrel-rolling target at random with his aiming reticule, closed the firing safety and depressed the trigger.

" _Fox Two!"_

Another Gnerl crossed _Marilyn_ 's centerline, creating an irresistible target as the first Asp shattered the port wing of the first.

Winters fired on the second Gnerl before forcing himself to tear free.

" _Break right and disengage!_ "

The pilot snap-rolled right and eased his dive as he began to scan the sky around his starboard rudder, looking for the bandits that Vice had called out.

They were there, coming down as Vincenz had reported, but not at the same, kamikaze angle of attack chosen foolishly by their predecessors.

They still were coming in at a high rate of speed though, and building energy in their dive.

Winters tried to swallow his heart back into his chest- even as it looked as though the Gnerls would overshoot.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha uttered something unflattering that likened the aliens and their fighters in the most derogatory way to Invid as a pair executed a perfectly synchronized turn into his attack run- throwing off his approach and defeating a shot before he could take it.

The comparison to Invid- the implied insult not withstanding- was not entirely unjustified. The alien fighters were far more nimble than the point lieutenant's Gnerl- being easily 30% the Fighter Pod's size and weight. They were showing themselves to be not quite as maneuverable as an Invid Trooper or even the heavier Shock Trooper was in space flight- but where they were demonstrating vast superiority to the Zentraedi's constant and traditional foe was in tactical prowess and combat proficiency.

These aliens were showing that they would not be lured or provoked into an ill-advised attack that a Warrior might turn easily into a kill of his opponent the way Invid routinely could. Shamefully (but _wisely_ Daehlarha admitted) these micronians _would_ retreat from a fight that was not in their favor, or at least maneuver to negate the advantage held over them- as Daehlarha had just seen.

With the aliens' technological edge which Daehlarha had also unfortunately experienced, the point lieutenant was forced to concede grudgingly that tactical doctrines practiced by the Te'Dak Tohl against both Invid and norghil were to be of little use.

-Except for one known to all Zentraedi.

Attrition.

Daehlarha and the other fighter group commanders who had been tasked with escorting the landing force of Re-Entry Transports had already used up the bulk of their norghil pilots absorbing the initial alien missile attacks.

-But some norghil remained.

These could still be used to some benefit.

Daehlarha was already seeing his Te'Dak Tohl Gnerl pilots beginning the tried practice of isolating and compartmentalizing the aliens into pockets for elimination. If he could distract the aliens with his remaining norghil, this would happen much quicker and the aliens would be positioned for the gathering Serhot Ran whose numbers were steadily building above.

It would be a less sophisticated victory than Te'Dak Tohl were accustomed to- but a victory was still a victory.

The point lieutenant recognized that he would have to survive first to organize and execute his vision.

As Daehlarha succeeded with the struggle of bringing his Gnerl out of a high-speed dive and into level with the horizon, a pair of alien fighters whipped through his forward hemisphere just above his cone of cannon fire.

His sensors were gone, but he still had missiles that were serving no purpose as long as they occupied his fighter's launchers.

Daehlarha worked his control yokes and rudder to snap-roll right into a turn that was tight enough to start his warning system blaring its predictions of structural overload of the airframe. The point lieutenant ignored the warning, knowing his Gnerl and where the danger line truly lay.

The nose came around, not as quickly as he wanted, but fast enough to bring the retreating alien fighters again into his forward hemisphere.

Close enough for his missiles to auto-acquire- maybe.

Daehlarha depressed the trigger.

Captain Carl "Bucket" Bailer of the 1404th Werewolves had just visually confirmed that the two surviving Gnerls of the six-ship element that he and his lead, Captain Aaron "Dumpy" Morris, had just bounced had disengaged and were withdrawing to the northwest.

The heightened state of awareness he'd gained in brief but vicious engagement added considerably to the "pucker factor" of hearing a missile launch warning buzz harshly in his ears.

Bucket's head snapped aft and to starboard where he saw the pulsing glow of a missile tracking. His Valkyrie's countermeasure systems had engaged automatically by this point, dispensing chaff and flares in a steady stream as his ECM bathed the missile's seeker head with electronic noise.

Still, somehow the missile appeared to be tracking true.

Bucket threw his stick left and hauled it back into his groin, reversing the turn of his fighter and putting the stream of chaff and flares directly between the missile and himself.

The Zentraedi missile lost active contact on the fighter it had auto-acquired almost immediately after launch, and passed blindly through a wall of confusing radar returns. The barrage of electromagnetic energy that swept the missile's attack bandwidth did not subside however but narrowed in its focus to the exact frequency of the missile's pulse radar.

Lacking the sophistication to realize it was blinded, the missile interpreted the persisting energy assault the only way it could and reacted.

Detonation.

" _Shit!_ ", Bucket yelped as the Zentraedi missile detonated near enough to toss him about in his restraints, peppering his Valkyrie with fragmentation shards.

Warning sirens wailed as the Valkyrie advised the pilot of damage incurred by the near-miss. Bucket's eyes were outside of the cockpit though, scanning for his attacker who he had not yet seen. The aircraft still responded to the controls, and Bucket saw no indication of fire- so without consulting the Valkyrie's self-diagnosis, the pilot was confident he was still in the fight.

He had to find the bandit though to either engage or evade him.

One near-miss per sortie was enough for Bucket, and a firm reminder that he did not want to sustain a hit.

" _Bucket- where the hell are your?!"_

Dumpy's call was both concerned and commanding because he was not only unable to support his wingman, but at the same time was also exposed without his wingman's support.

"West of you-!", Bucket replied, giving his best estimation as he intently scanned the sky and horizon to find the aggressor who had gotten off a shot on him.

At his 9 o'clock he found a pair- no, _two pairs_ of Gnerls coming up from below the line of the horizon. In a banking turn as he was, Bucket knew he was showing his enemy a "plan view" of his Valkyrie- the broadest possible target that he could offer.

Instinctively knowing to reduce his aspect and get out of the bandits' gun sights, Bucket nulled his turn and rolled the Valkyrie onto its back to disengage by means of a dive.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha's frustration that the long-odds missile shot had failed to kill the alien fighter was muted as his opponent's evasion brought him left again, back into the sweep of Daehlarha's cannons.

More pleasing to the Gnerl pilot was the apparent fact that the micronian pilot had not yet seen him, and was exposing a top-down view of his aircraft to Daehlarha.

An expert shot, it was more than the Gnerl pilot needed.

Daehlarha quickly centered his aiming reticule and pressed the firing trigger.

A stream of particle beam fire ripped in rapid alternating sequence from the three cannons of the Gnerl's nose-mounted gun cluster and shredded the Valkyrie from amidships to tail as it began to roll over in an attempt to dive out of the engagement.

Streams of fire and debris trailed the alien fighter as spiraled down toward the sea- a gratifying sight to Daehlarha.

Just as the Gnerl pilot was turning his attention to the second alien fighter with whom his first "kill" had been paired, he saw something separate from the nose end of the plummeting aircraft. It had left the fighter at too high a velocity and at too perfect of a right angle to be wreckage breaking off.

Losing the object quickly and without the ability to confirm his first suspicion, Daehlarha knew it had to be some sort of escape mechanism for the alien pilot.

Frustration returned to the Gnerl pilot.

Even when they were killed, the aliens refused to be _killed_.

Dumpy turned his Valkyrie on an opening 90º angle to the four-ship element of Gnerls the moment he saw Bucket's silk (actually _nylon_ ) open into a perfect canopy.

"Bucket's down!", the pilot announced, "I saw a chute-. Typhoon, advise SAR that we've got a pilot down! -And get me the hell out of here!- Vector me in to the closest friendly!"

" _Aw shit!.. –They spiked Icky!"_

Switchblade heard the call as she was leveling out of a rolling dive that had succeeded in shaking the pair of Gnerls that had latched on to her the moment her wingman, Cosmo had broken away to foil the attack of another pair.

The report and the sight were the ones she'd dreaded and expected from the first moment of seeing the magnitude of the Zentraedi attack.

A Valkyrie- one of _her_ Valkyries- was going down in flames.

There was little to identify the tumbling fireball as a Veritech except for the first-hand report of the other pilot, and no reason to rush SAR to the scene. There was no sign that the pilot whom Mumuni had brushed elbows with and bummed a cigarette from at the bar only hours before had managed to eject- and there was no chance of surviving within the plunging inferno.

It had been bound to happen, Mumuni reminded herself- sooner or later.

 _It_ was beginning to happen with measurable frequency now, and the hearing of the warnings from Typhoon, or a quick glance at a tactical detail-embellished radar display easily explained why.

The fight that had begun stretched out over a broad line had quickly contracted into four "kill boxes". As the number of bandits had begun to rise, and Valkyries were forced to seek each other out for mutual protection and support- the four kill boxes had coalesced into two.

Now, Typhoon had just announced that the two had merged into one.

The sweeping melee had turned into a brawling furball at 10,000 meters altitude- and it was _precisely_ the fight the Zentraedi wanted. It was also the one that Mumuni knew she and her pilots _had_ to avoid.

Valkyries were increasingly defensive, and spending equal or greater time clearing one another's tails of Gnerls than they were employing the sharp end of the spear.

Fighter Pods could be seen setting up their simple, yet effective "slashing runs" from the perimeter of the kill box that they were steadily gaining control of- executing, and withdrawing for their next attempt with impunity.

Mumuni knew it was time to leave- if egress was still possible.

By the "natural" development of the fight, if there was such a thing, the aerial battle had begun to drift east from the moment of first merge and had continued to roll back toward the California coast building speed like a sea squall as it went.

This meant that any break she and her pilots could make from the fight would not be a clean one. The enemy was sure to pursue, if for no other reason than to rejoin with the landing force it had split from to fight the Valkyries.

"Typhoon, Militia Leader- I'm calling it!", Mumuni blurted indignantly, "Get my people _out of here!_ -And get Prospector on the line-! We're going to need SAM cover and any fighters he can scrape up for rear guard!"

"Copy that, Militia Leader-. We're vectoring you out by element and will have Prospector set a defensive line at the coast. –Hang in there!"

Winters had heard Mumuni's decision to withdraw, which was not cowardice in any sense but rather the only intelligent call that could be made. With two Fury missiles left on _Marilyn'_ s weapons stations before he would have to resort to guns for every shot, and with still more bandits than open sky- it was a call that Winters was glad Mumuni had made.

"Jack" Winters had more immediate concerns though.

Less than thirty seconds before, a pair of Gnerls had crossed his nose below on a 110º "slice", possibly unaware of he and Vice spotting them as they transitioned starboard to port- an irresistible target for any fighter pilot.

Winters, now alternating the element "lead" roll with Vice to stretch the ordinance each carried called his intent to attack and was rolling into the saddle for a low-deflection shot when Vice spotted three Gnerls closing with the same intent high on their seven o'clock zones.

Vice had broken formation to clear Winters' tail, but had only taken two Gnerls with him.

The remaining Fighter Pod, likely the lead, had stuck with Winters, and in a position the RDF pilot did not want him to remain in.

A trail of chaff and flares from _Marilyn'_ s countermeasure dispensers along with a steady electromagnetic curtain aft had decoyed four missiles fired line-of-sight at the Valkyrie while the pilot dove and barrel-rolled for the deck through a hail of particle beam fire that was becoming distressingly accurate.

Conventional thinking said that diving from a Gnerl was not a sound tactical practice. They were heavier, Winters knew, and would overtake a Valkyrie in all but a full-powered dive- excluding the possibility that the Gnerl pilot had his throttle to the stops as well.

But they had started their dive below 8,000 meters and there the denser air would work to the Valkyrie's advantage.

Going to the deck, the Gnerl pilot would have to be mindful of the stress put on his airframe and wings in a powered dive.

In a fight on the deck, the Valkyrie's greater wing load capacity would give it the maneuvering edge.

Almost as an afterthought, Winters had also hoped- _after_ pitching sharply down toward the Pacific- that the Gnerl's weight and velocity would overtake him and that he might roll around his opponent and swap positions in his (or _her_ Winters reminded himself) passing.

The Gnerl pilot was clearly experienced though, and recognized the performance characteristics of his machine. He was sparing with the throttle in the dive and kept his rate of closure measured and controlled, which gave him the time and range to zero-in his cannon-fire.

At 3,500 meters, below and beyond the level where a sane pilot would have begun his pull-out, Winters hauled the stick back and grunted and strained through the rush of blood into his legs.

 _Marilyn_ groaned also as the nose came up and away from the rapidly-approaching sea For a moment Winters was not certain which he feared more- smacking her belly into the wave-tops, or returning to Edwards and to Lyle with a bent aircraft.

As the Valkyrie's nose rose to match the horizon at an altitude below where most seagulls flew, a stream of particle beam bolts ripped the air around the canopy close enough for Winters to feel their radiant heat.

He had not _forgotten_ the Gnerl, but had been in the process of checking his tail with the expectation of seeing the last of a water column where the Gnerl _should_ have gone into the drink.

Incredibly- _horrifyingly_ \- the Gnerl was still back there, bracketed by _Marilyn'_ s tail rudders, and resuming his gun attack.

Winters could only assume that the dive to the deck had rattled the Zentraedi pilot as it was the only reason he could think of that he had not yet been torn apart by the Gnerl's powerful nose cannon cluster.

It was the last and only advantage that Winters expected to get with his adversary.

Winters opened _Marilyn'_ s speed brakes and pulled the fighter's nose high- almost into a stall as he drew the throttles back.

Nose high, he retracted the brakes as he rolled the fighter over and brought the throttles back to mid-range. He peered through the top of his canopy that now looked down on the sea and found himself staring at the Gnerl pilot who was gazing back up at him through his own acrylic windscreen.

Like wrestlers grappling and tumbling with one another on a mat, the two fighters began an immediate scissor roll- each trying to bleed off airspeed and force the other out front and into position for a gun shot.

Despite the proximity to the deck, Winters felt hints of relief as dark sky and darker sea rolled before him. In this match, he had the clear and inevitable advantage as the Gnerl with its minimal wing surface had a stall speed 100 knots higher than the Valkyrie.

Winters only had to bleed him out.

The Gnerl pilot, likely unaware of the exact speed at which the Valkyrie would fall from the air, still must have suspected his disadvantage and chose an unorthodox tactic that Winters would not have guessed with even his wildest attempt.

Inverted and in the superior position, the Gnerl pulled its nose slightly down and _toward_ the deck- hoping to either "bump" the Valkyrie in, or force a panic mistake in Winters causing him to plow his own aircraft into the waves.

Winters clenched his teeth (among other things) as he fought the panic reaction and continued the smooth roll of his fighter- watching the Gnerl drop past like a brawler over-extending himself with a missed punch.

The fluid motion of the Gnerl through the air ended suddenly- probably as its rudder clipped a wave-top- and the alien fighter was snatched by the sea from the air.

Looking aft as he leveled and then began to climb away from the unforgiving Pacific, Winters saw the last tumbling bits of Gnerl wreckage bounce once more over the water's surface before vanishing below in sheets of spray.

 _You and me and the devil makes three, you poor sod…_

"Jack- is that you coming off the deck at my eleven?"

Winters recognized the voice immediately as Vincenz's, but was puzzled by the question as he located a Valkyrie high off his starboard wing. "Blue Force" recognition through InfoLink and the Valkyrie's independent IFF systems should have not only shown Winters to his wingman as a "friendly", but identified his unit affiliation and specific identity.

"All but the twelve pounds of me I just sweated off-.", Winters replied as a comforting distance opened between his fighter and the ocean.

The dogfight continued to churned above, broad and sweeping toward the coast- but it had not gotten down to this level yet. Winters still had a few moments to collect his nerves.

"-Am I not squawking?"

"I'm not _reading_.", Vincenz replied, "Damn ditto tried to part my hair down the middle with a particle beam and clipped my IFF receiver in the process. _Fuck_ if this ain't gonna drive up my insurance premium .…"

Winters scanned the sky above as he was forming up with Vice again. Per Mumuni's orders and Typhoon's direction, there were Valkyries trying to break from contact above and he knew the pilots flying all of them.

It wasn't a question of whether he and Vice would enter the fray again to help open the exit, it was a matter of where they could tie on to have the greatest impact.

"-You're grazed too, you know.", Vice advised.

"What?"

"Port rudder- you're missing a bit off the top.", Vice reported pensively, "Lyle's gonna have words with us both."

"Probably-.", Winters agreed, "But in our defense- I think these blokes have been trying to kill us-."

"At a _minimum_."

Lieutenant Hralm was now in clear violation of orders.

 _Orders_ had come from a point lieutenant, 7th in the chain of command of the assault force- a responsibility that he had not likely given much thought to given the length of the list preceding his own name.

Fate had an interesting way of turning assumptions on their heads despite the best efforts in planning and execution.

No one had or legitimately could have predicted the savagery that such a small number of micronian defenders were capable of until the moment of contact.

Estimation and predictions were irrelevant though when fire was being exchanged- as was the willingness or preparedness of the combatants to accept Fate's direction.

Battle was its own entity with little reason and fewer rules.

The acting commander had quickly assessed the situation presented to him, and had decided that the Serhot Ran and their Nacht-Rau combat suits had become more critical to ground operations and should therefore fly on with the transports moving inland, rather than linger with the Gnerls in a now-inconsequential skirmish with the alien fighters.

The majority of the Serhot Ran had obeyed.

Others, like Hralm, had opted to _delay_ _compliance_ long enough to satisfy a guiding principle of the elite shock troop corps- _vengeance_ for fallen comrades.

The assault force would be easily found at one of four landing zone options- _after_.

The fight had rolled quickly east and was nearing land by the time Hralm had recovered from a dual missile hit to his combat suit and had been able rejoin.

From high above, the opening to the "pocket" formed by the Gnerls to trap the alien fighters could be seen easily- and more to the point of the tactic, the pocket could be seen failing.

Alien fighters were beginning to slip out in numbers and were making a low-altitude dash east that the Gnerls would be hard pressed to match. Unlike Invid who could be counted on to stay in a fight once joined, and to remain with that fight until the last- the _micronians_ were more strongly geared toward self-preservation.

They had not allowed the pocket to envelop them completely, nor had they allowed it to close entirely- always shifting east toward their base of operation. This had driven more than anything the progression of the fight back toward land.

Beginning his dive in the near-vertical, Hralm knew only the alien fighters flying at the highest level would be target options. Even with the Nacht-Rau's impressive vectored thrust booster system, pulling the heavy combat suit out of a dive required significant distance to avoid catastrophe. This limited his options in his ambush from above, but there was always the possibility that a foolish alien combatant could be lured by his pass out for individual battle at lower level.

This option would unfold or not shortly- but first, Hralm selected his first target from altitude as he pressed his suit to its maximum dive speed and readied his energy weapons systems that would not give him away with acquisition before striking.

Air-to-air combat- _any_ combat really- was not unlike poker played with the highest stakes.

Much relied on _estimation_ \- whether your hand was better than your opponent's.

Much relied on _intuition_ \- in how you played a hand.

-And as in poker, sometimes the deciding factor was the _bluff_ \- how well you played off having _absolutely nothing_.

Captain Jonathan "Rebound" Clifton had been watching his element lead from Knight Hawk Squadron's B-Flight, Captain Alan "Gecko" Home bluff Gnerls now for almost three minutes- an eternity air dueling.

Apparently the Zentraedi had been quick students of exactly how effective RDF missiles were, and of how lethal to their own fighters they could be.

Holding the north edge of the pocket breech open with the squadron XO, "Buster" Dalton and Preacher on his wing, Rebound had seen Gecko blast no less than a half dozen Gnerls with nothing more than his Valkyrie's attack radar- and a half dozen times Rebound had seen Gnerls retreat from a Valkyrie carrying no missiles.

As Paul Newman had pointed out once in one of his signature roles, sometimes _nothing_ was a pretty cool hand.

Bluffing had its nemesis though- the "call"- and being an experienced poker player, Rebound knew Gecko to know that even the best bluffer had to occasionally show the goods.

For that reason, Rebound now found himself matching Gecko in a 5-G, left banking turn to execute a gun shot on a fleeing Gnerl. While Gecko's eyes were forward on his target, Rebound's were everywhere else.

There were two Gnerls who Gecko had flushed 45 seconds earlier- and they were beginning to creep back into the fight from where they had egressed to the north. They had shown their sensors to have been burned out, so a missile "snap-shot" from their range was improbable, and they would not be in a viable gun-shot position or range for another twenty seconds or more by Rebound's estimation.

A single stray was loitering to the northeast as wellt- a tourist in the trade for the moment and probably waiting for additional support before rushing four Valkyries. A wise decision, given the RDF fighters' demonstrated performance this night.

But it was the one that Rebound _had not seen yet_ that gave him the most concern, because _he_ was inevitably the one who got you.

Looking for _him_ , Rebound kept his head on a swivel scanning all parts of the sky in a trained and deliberate pattern until Gecko could take his shot.

Militia Flight would be clear of the pocket soon- a minute at most, and then they could disengage and get the hell home to arm up again for the second round of what promised to be a long, first match.

Rebound's eyes were beginning to scan high when Preacher gave the warning cry that no pilot wanted to hear mid-attack-.

" _Four suits high! COMING DOWN!"_

As though guided by Preacher's words, Rebound's eyes found the power armor above- nearly _directly_ above- and in a sheer dive.

 _He_ or _him_ appeared to be a _she_ today, and treacherously _they_ were making their collective approach with sensors down to not give themselves away on the attack.

They transformed from dark dots to having recognizable form in the literal blink of an eye, and Rebound had barely the time to realize that with their suicidal angle of attack, he had no chance of managing an intercept.

The words would not come quickly enough either to warn Gecko.

" _Gecko- HIGH!..."_ , Rebound managed to blurt incoherently before the power armor was within striking distance.

Capsule-like, a single, orange energy-round that seemed unusually large to Rebound in the fraction of a second that he saw it, passed from one of the descending power armor suits and struck Gecko's Valkyrie at the center of the wing-junction box. What followed was not so much an explosion, but rather an inferno that appeared to devour the fighter in a blazing orb.

It was only a second warning from Preacher that jolted Rebound into realizing that he himself was passing through a hail of laser fire.

The exact words did not register, but freed the portion of the pilot's mind required to roll out and away from the attack in a maneuver that was more instinct and training than conscious thought.

Lt Col Fred "Buster" Dalton watched the amorphous blaze that had been Gecko's Valkyrie separate into three distinct molten masses, tumble away, and spiral out of sight trailing tendrils of oily fire.

Dalton's mind was working analytically, tactically- in the cold, calculating, mechanical way that it needed to function to allow him to survive the fight. _It_ had not registered on any emotional level what had just happened to a long-time squadron-mate and friend- _it_ couldn't.

Not yet.

Within Dalton's focus, something immediately stood out as suspiciously out of place in the attack that had killed Gecko.

Queadlunn-Rau power armor carried no energy weapons with the characteristics he had just seen exhibited. Periodic "refresher training" which all RDF personnel, but particularly the active-combat MOS's, were obliged to attend all included a day on the hosting facility's "live fire" range. During these demonstrations which most looked forward to with the same zeal as what had once been felt by many for professional wrestling matches or monster-truck rallies, former Zentraedi Warriors turned RDF would remind the attending humans of the unpolished lethality of the machines that The Robotech Masters had provided them.

Dalton had never seen anything demonstrated like what had just killed Captain Alan "Gecko" Home.

Things suddenly connected in the parts of Dalton where he was not an officer or a fighter pilot, but a husband and father- and then _it_ struck him solidly.

"-Repeat again-.", came Winters voice, "What was that?"

Dalton realized he had spoken- _mumbled_ really- without recognizing that he was doing so.

"They just got Gecko, Jack.", Dalton said, the weighty draping of shock begin to slide free of his shoulders.

"-Was there a chute? -Did he get out?"

The numbness was gone now and a searing rage flared and spread.

" _No_."

Dalton's tactical mind quickly summed up the equation.

 _Four Queadlunn-Rau combat suits- presumably fully armed and functional._

 _One Valkyrie with two Fury dogfighting missiles, 350 rounds of "mixed bag" in the gun pod, and as many bolts of laser fire as the generators could pump out before melting down._

It was about to be a bad "last" day for one Zentraedi in particular- and as many of the other three who chose to get in Dalton's way.

"Preacher, get Rebound back to the squadron-."

From his position to the southwest, Winters saw Dalton break from the main engagement and from his wingman, Preacher.

Twin trails of partial afterburner lit the early morning as the squadron leader watched his executive officer take up pursuit through night optics.

Winters knew that he _should_ have been calling Dalton back to the formation- _ordering him_ to do so, but he found that he wasn't.

He had not seen Gecko go down, and so the finality of what had happened was only setting in now as Dalton's words and tone spun around inside of his skull.

Winters realized suddenly that he was not ordering Dalton back because he was keen on seeing the blood-debt collected too.

"Rebound- are you out there?", Winters asked realizing that he was moments from losing visual contact with Dalton.

"Yeah-.", Rebound replied instantly, though sounding winded, "I'm banged up- losing an engine, but I'm here."

"I've got eyes on him, Jack.", Preacher said, the concern clear in his voice, "He's going to need cover to limp back to base- but I'm losing Buster-."

"Rebound, form up with Preacher and then rally with Vice.", Winters said letting the orders flow as the thoughts came to him.

 _Maybe_ he would be able to argue or explain his way out of this when Mumuni and Major General Butler had time to loop back and review after action reports- and maybe he wouldn't. But for the time being, he had a pilot out on his own, and he could not afford to lose more pilots this night.

"-Stay with the others and get back to Edwards. I'll grab Buster and be along directly. Keep the porch light on for us-."

Winters checked to verify that he and Vice had not developed a tail before he broke from his wingman.

"Dodger, Pinball-. Are you up for one more tangle?"

"-Try holding us back, Jack.", Pinball replied from a generous distance west of Winters.

"We're in.", Dodger affirmed.

No word had been spoken of Winters' true, underlying intent that in a matter of moments had come to fall in perfect step with Dalton's. But it was clear that the two pilots from A Flight whom Winters had "tapped" to join in were on the same page as well.

It was an insane, "rookie" stunt that Dalton was pulling, and Winters knew he would be obligated to lay into him accordingly. First though, he wanted to get him back.

-But hopefully _not_ before the score could be evened up for Gecko.

 **Brasilia**

Three months of urban warfare had defaced and gutted Brasilia, one of the world's few cities that had escaped serious damage or devastation in The Zentraedi Holocaust a half-decade before.

It had gone from a vibrant population center whose nights were alive with cosmopolitan social activity to the shell of civilization whose dominant sounds were the low moans of wind through smashed building faces punctuated frequently by the sharp and distinct sounds of violence.

Rapid as this shift had been, there was no comparison to the overall degradation of Brasilia that had been accomplished earlier this night in a split second.

Major Mason Colven, "Gator" Company, 149th Mecha Armor Regiment was certain that there was no longer a right-angle to any building in all of Brasilia.

The single particle beam blast from orbital Zentraedi gunfire had struck somewhere southwest of the city. Homestead Base, standing to the northeast in a vacated warehouse complex had been jolted by the blast wave in the lee of the city violently enough to leave the corrugated metal structures that had been restored by engineers slumping away from the site of impact. Other structures had collapsed on Homestead, and fires had been quick to flare up wherever combustibles had been compromised.

Brasilia by comparison, visible and less than four kilometers away, had taken on a raked appearance and was now glowing luridly from within as though the infernal landscape of hell had decided to breech somewhere in the city's center.

If there was any "silver lining"- any viewing of the glass as "half full"- it was, Colven reminded himself, that the civilian population of Brasilia had fled months earlier between the rise of active malcontent insurgency and the "stabilization" of the city.

Certainly there were still the vermin known as looters, and pockets of the ACWs ( _Avenging Civic Warriors_ ) who were a presence in any war zone, mostly getting underfoot of the professionals while attempting to "do their part" in the fight for "home".

There were also units deployed within all districts of Brasilia and many other s outside of the city that had been posted to monitor for any signs that the great wave of malcontents who had left might be attempting a gradual flow back in.

-And of course there was also the ASC presence- not _hostile_ but not entirely _friendly_ as they held regions of the city and were reliable only insofar as their treatment of Zentraedi- malcontents ( _all_ Zentraedi in their view it seemed)- was more _dire_ than the RDF-Army's.

-And this was Brasilia.

Colven did not want to invest the emotional energy in imagining the condition of any of these groups who were the occupants of the burning city. There was much to do to secure Homestead Base and bind its wounds before any thought could be given to reaching out to assist those in Brasilia proper.

Also, emotional energy had a way of spilling over into other areas outside of the ones it was invested in. This led to loss of focus, and in times of crisis loss of focus more often than not led to the additional loss of lives.

-Though it was likely that this might be a moot point.

Major Colven looked briefly, one last time at the standard-issue dosimetry badge that was normally clipped to the same chain as his dog tags and hung about his neck. This morning, the exposed strip of radiation-sensitive film had been a soft, dove-grey- an expected shade for the age of the badge. Now, the film was blackened with incident radiation received in a single, massive dose from the particle beam strike.

Oddly, Colven felt fine with the exception of the sting of his skin that was not as biting as some mild sun burns he had brought upon himself over the years.

The difference was of course that he had been _inside_ the officers' mess at the time of the strike greeting the holiday with beer and Buffalo wings.

Colven felt fine, but despite the fact that he had been indoors, and even though he and the others in the officers' mess had immediately ingested the radiation meds found in the mess hall's emergency medical kit- the dosimetry badge neither lied nor tried to soften the unpleasant truth.

It would take time, of course- hours, maybe a day before he and the others would feel the first symptoms- and 36 to 48 hours before the signs of radiation sickness became acute-. But Colven knew this was as "fine" as he was ever going to feel again.

The dosimetry badge clattered as it was chucked like a skipping stone over a mill pond across the concrete surface of the warehouse turned mecha pool.

Maintenance and weapons crews seldom seen attending to mecha at the same time worked together now to arm Gator Company's Gladiator Mk-III Destroids, supplemented in their numbers by any enlisted personnel whose path they had crossed.

Some of the specialized equipment used for this purpose had been damaged in the initial attack, but enough was functional to adequately support the arming process.

It was in the number of qualified operators that the detail was falling short. Young muscle however filled the gaps to accomplish the movement and loading of ordinance where mechanical means were falling short.

A common expression of vengeful determination was worn by many young faces, aging them years in its display. The act of arming the Destroids was not "pay back" for the sucker-punch just received- not by any stretch of the imagination.

-But it was a good start.

And "pay back" for the enlisted was certainly in order.

Unlike the festivities that had been planned for officers- a significant minority on Homestead Base- the party for the enlisted had spilled out into the night around the enlisted mess. When the particle beam had struck- many had been seriously burned immediately and then mauled moments later when the blast wave swept them with shrapnel-like debris.

Casualty collection points had quickly been established all around post to assist the instantly-overwhelmed medical staff. The wounded to be triaged and those fewer, less fortunate who had died from initial trauma were still swelling these CCPs within eyeshot of those who were working feverishly in the mecha pool.

Of these casualties was a portion of Gator Company's "Destroid Drivers" who had retired to quarters early. This decision had been fatal for seventeen and had resulted in the serious injury of nine when the officers' barracks had folded under the slumping collapse of the adjacent warehouse serving as the quartermaster's depot.

Gator Company now teetered on what normally would have been considered at "combat ineffective unit strength" with its reduced number of "ready" Drivers. In Colven's estimation though, right now the RDF as a whole was probably in some state of combat ineffectiveness or another.

This was just Gator Company's- _Homestead Base's_ \- bad hand that they had been dealt to play in a night of many bad hands.

Twenty-one Gators stood waiting around a sheet of corrugated steel that had been leveled over two rolling tool cabinets to form a table. Colven's own, personal copy of the area map of Brasilia had been flattened out over the improvised table and was held down at the corners against the night breeze by four metric wrenches from one of the cabinet's sets.

Colven had received his initial orders in the CP from Brigadier General Wendel himself while the CP was still smoky from fires that had just been extinguished. InfoLink had never come back up, and other communications with RDF-SOUTHCOM were spotty at best- but all of the fragments of information put together formed a picture clear enough for Wendel to decide on a first response. It was neither complete nor polished, but it was the best that could be cobbled together quickly and with the available information from the outside world.

"Okay, here it is-.", Colven said, motioning the officers and warrant officers of his diminished unit around the map to hear what was to be passed off as "the plan".

"We get to do a complete one-eighty in operations-. We just cleared Brasilia out, now we get to move in and hold it until we're extracted or relieved. We're setting up shop in the Federal District west of the Portuguese Highway and north of _Vija Rao Tribas._ "

Colven outlined the area of the Federal District he had just described before making sweeping gestures outward.

"So, we know we've got malcontent hostiles to the north, at least half a day's march- but what we don't know is what the dittos- the _invading_ ones- plan to do with the areas in the other directions. General Wendel thinks that the gun strike to our southwest was to prepare the area for a landing force in the open country. Maybe, maybe not- we've got no way of knowing."

"What this position we'll be reconnoitering will provide us is a buffer from attack- whichever direction it comes from. I know that there's twenty-two of us for any heavy work, but we've also got an infantry division, a Ranger Regiment, and a regiment of Gurkha Rifles just itchin' to have someone come looking for a fight. We can't seal off this part of the district air-tight, but between limited direct approaches and multiple choke points- we can make the dittos think twice about whether the fight is worth the warriors they'll lose fighting it."

Casey, one of Colven's warrant officer motioned that he had a question, and when acknowledged by his commander with a nod, asked, "Any signs that we _will_ be getting reinforced or relieved, Major?"

The question was not an inappropriate one, Colven admitted to himself. He had no way of estimating where Brasilia figured into the region's order of priorities, or of how its garrison ranked.

Colven noticed also the absence of dosimetry badges hanging from the dog tags of his Destroid Drivers. Apparently they too had seen clearly the message conveyed by the badges and had found no need to continue revisiting it.

"Can't say I've gotten that call myself.", Colven replied, keeping focus on what _needed to be done_ if any of the garrison of Homestead Base was to be saved, "But the best we can do right now is hole up and see what comes next. Any other questions?"

There were none- the prevailing mood being one sensible as this was at least something to do while the unit was still viable that might even result in an opportunity to fight.

"Okay then, Gators-. Saddle up in five."

 **Manchester, England**

RDF-Manchester functioning as one of the two quartermaster's depots for the north-central UK was little more than a sprawling complex of warehouses, loading docks, and a lesser number of truck yards all bound in the trappings of a military post. Its intended purpose was to keep on hand all of the material required to make the military function- from "smart" weapons to boot laces- and to move these supplies out to the various other posts in its supply area on a regular, scheduled basis.

Now, not unlike the markets and stores that performed the same basic function for civilians on a lesser scale, the depot was struggling with all of the burdens of a sudden, massive, uniform demand for every conceivable stock item.

"8x4" supply trucks with their eight shoulder-high, all terrain tires and four metric-ton carrying capacity stretched in a line back to and through the depot's gates empty and with requisition orders as a proportionate flow of loaded transports rolled continuously out with critical supplies for untold destinations.

In the midst of this logistical tide, Howard had been hesitant to get closer to the depot than within eyeshot- and had made it absolutely clear to his passengers that he would not be attempting to enter the post lest he be somehow delayed or detained.

His passengers, now three- appeared understandably nervous but were accepting of the limits where Howard had to draw the line of assistance and who were grateful for being brought this far.

There had been a few final pieces of advice offered, parting words that were _appropriate_ for exchange between an officer and enlistedmen who had not yet even been assigned to a military branch, and then Howard had left them by the roadside and disappeared south in haste- not looking back.

Entering RDF-Manchester had been easy enough- the three young men showing their military identification cards to the guards in Cyclone battloids at the gatehouse. The great movement of humanity which on the approach to Manchester was far less than the flood that Andy had expected was _away_ from the city, the depot, and anything that might be a "target" to the Zentraedi.

Other than the fact that three enlistedmen who had wisely concealed in their duffle bags the sub-machineguns they had gotten from the Johnsons' hired guard, base security was more concerned at the moment with facilitating the flow of supply than the business of fresh graduates of basic training.

It was a four, nearly five kilometer walk from the point at which Howard had pulled the land rover to the side of the road to let his passengers off to where the three saw the first signs that the line of trucks might have an end to it. The unbroken column of 8x4s separated outside of the warehouse complex and forked three ways into the initial clusters of storage buildings.

With no clear indication of how to go about bargaining for transport or even which area of loading transports might produce the best results, the three enlistedmen chose at random a marshalling yard in which to begin.

With it being the 21st Century, and Manchester being an installation of the same extended military "family" that had listed among its assets starships capable of folding the very fabric of space- one could have expected some highly technologically advanced method of moving supplies from a warehouse to the 8x4 onto which it was to be loaded. To the contrary, the scene in the loading yard was almost unchanged from that which had played out countless millions of time since there had been goods in warehouses to be moved and wheeled conveyances with which to move them.

These were the gross details that the untrained eye would have immediately fixed upon.

Andy Johnson had been around warehouses, work loweries, and the men who labored in that world in relation to his father's construction business since before he had learned the meaning of work.

What he saw despite the false trappings of chaos was an organized element of the supply distribution system that was holding up remarkably well given the strain it was under.

Looking identical in the gross details to the system his father had to explained to him as a bored "pre" and early teen, Andy saw pallets of supplies electronically requisitioned, drawn from the warehouses, packaged for shipping, and pre-staged to be married with the lowery that would haul the supplies to their destinations. RFID tags, the size of a cigarette lighter, were clipped securely to binding straps with each bundle allowing quartermaster's personnel armed with tablet computers to guide drivers to the pallets that they were responsible for.

Despite the frenzy of vehicles and personnel which gave the truck yard the appearance of an ant colony fully at work, Andy felt an odd, mild relief as this was the first element of the military that he had come across that had made immediate sense to him.

Thinking back to Howard's question to he in particular- his brother's prod to decide on an MOS- the possibility of quartermaster's school and billeting became a clearly logical option.

It was an underappreciated but by no means disrespected specialty that had to function to allow all of the branches of the Service to operate-.

Andy recognized that he was drifting- a boyish tendency toward fancy that Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae and all of his cadre had not quite stomped, drilled, and regimented out of him. Andy caught it though, and remembered that he had to address the matter of getting back to Falkirk _first_ before any "life decisions" could be made.

"Well, what do you think-?", Cedric asked as trucks arrived and stood waiting for a comparatively few number of forklifts to load pallets into their open beds before being hastened off by intense-looking quartermaster staff.

"-Stick out a thumb, or show our legs as they go by-?"

"I've got skinny hips.", Cattermole snorted, "I say we go back to the gate, wait for someone to veer left toward the M63, and hitch on."

Cedric shook his head, "Sure- because _everyone_ going north is passing by Falkirk. –We could end up in Wales for all you know."

"-Which is still closer to Falkirk than we are now-.", Cattermole countered.

"- _Girls-._ ", Andy said derisively stepping in, " _Before someone loses an eye or breaks a nail-._ "

Of the two closest rows of pallets and the depot personnel overseeing the loading of supplies onto the arriving trucks, Johnson found the closest body who looked to have a handle on the goings-on, and approached him directly.

"Sergeant-.", Johnson called as the weathered, stocky man whose skin flushed pink in shocking contrast to the forest and earth tones of his BDUs began to turn away and move up the line of stacked supplies and idling 8x4s.

Taking direction from the tablet computer he carried, the mid-grade sergeant seemed oblivious to the call, requiring Andy to try a second time to even gain notice "Sergeant-!"

Clearly annoyed at having to acknowledge Johnson, who he had actually heard the first time but had chosen to ignore, the sergeant paused in his task long enough for the enlistedman to sprint the ten paces to speak without having to yell over the omnipresent rumble of powerful 8x4 turbo-diesel engines.

"If you three are the damn help I requested an hour ago, I'm joining the other side-.", the sergeant grumbled as Collins and Cattermole joined Johnson in their less than pristine dress uniforms.

"No sir.", Johnson said, and smelling the indications of a heavy smoker on the sergeant's breath he fished the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket as an offering in gratitude for the NCO's attention.

The sergeant took an offered cigarette, warming very slightly to the three who could only have stood out more in the truck yard had they been wearing clown outfits.

"We're trying to get to Falkirk RTC, Sergeant.", Andy said bluntly, seeing that before the NCO had even put away his lighter that he was already showing signs of being mindful of the time being wasted, "Can you tell us if anyone is headed north?"

The sergeant grunted, "Plenty headed _north_ -. Not sure about Falkirk though-."

" _North_ is a good start.", Cedric said, not wanting to lose a good opportunity for hopes of the perfect one.

The sergeant drew long on his cigarette as he looked up and down the line of trucks standing in wait whose two-man crews had now all gotten out to unbundle pallets and had begun to manually load their own vehicles.

"-Alright- here it is then-. I've had these stiffs sitting here for fifteen minutes waiting for a lift truck to come and start loading them up. We've got a two hour back-up to clear before we can get on schedule, and _that_ isn't gonna happen either-. So if you can bring yourselves to scuffing up your good shoes a little and help to start hand-load these loweries- I'll see that you get out on the first one headed in the direction of Falkirk."

"Done.", agreed Johnson, "Thank you, Sergeant-."

" _Ah-hmm-._ ", the sergeant added, flexing his fingers in a "gimme" gesture as the enlistedman began to think the deal was closed.

Johnson, still holding the pack of cigarettes that now contained less than six, handed the "cherry" over to seal the bargain.

"Done."

 **Edwards City, California**

Father Howard was a true believer that The Lord did not present challenges that His servants were incapable of overcoming- but he did acknowledge that _some_ challenges were greater than others.

Even with Civil Defense volunteers systematically working the streets of Edwards City, calling by loudspeaker the population to established shelters and alternate shelters, and with civilians answering the call in droves- Howard was finding that sweeps of low-rise apartment buildings and single-family dwellings were turning up an equal number who had been reluctant to displace.

Volunteers from his parish had convinced some to leave their homes, and had even inspired a number to join in the canvassing effort. Others had been reluctant or opposed- even _belligerently_ opposed- to leaving their homes, and in these cases Father Howard and his group had been forced to leave the steadfast with blessings and the open invitation to shelter at St. John's Church should their inclinations change.

After a little over an hour's effort though, Father Howard had sensed the approach of another of The Lord's "challenges", linked ironically to the success that his seekers were having. With each probe into an apartment building or residential area, Father Howard and his volunteers were succeeding in coaxing an average of thirty people out to return to the church for sanctuary.

By Father Howard's count, he was approaching the safe capacity of his church before he had ventured five blocks from its doors.

Then, as The Lord always did, He provided the means to solve the challenges he had set in place for His servants.

Coming up north along N Street, Father Howard and a flock of nearly forty had come across Imam Al-Ayubi, whose Dar Al-Hijrah Mosque (one of four in Southern California outside of Los Angeles) stood along the southeast edge of Edwards City. A mirror image of Father Howard's effort, Imam Al-Ayubi had appeared with a dozen men and boys of the small Muslim community, offering in the meeting with Howard not only news that the city's civic center still had abundant room to shelter the population, but also that he had come across Rabbi Steinberg of Shiloh Synagogue who was moving with volunteers through the dwellings in the southwest corner of the city.

Weekly dinners that had become a custom with the religious heads of Edwards City and that were alternately hosted by Al-Ayubi, Steinberg, Howard, and Reverend Gilbert of the larger Methodist congregation had done much to foster communication and cooperation in areas of common interest over the years- along with providing an opportunity for indulging in low-stakes poker.

Father Howard had wondered after initially crossing paths with the Imam earlier this night why none of the discussions at these dinners had ever broached the subject of what The Lord might require of them should a situation like the one currently unfolding arise.

Howard chalked it up to the imperfections of men who lacked The Lord's omnipotence. The immediate concerns of adequate food and basic necessities for families had always been more pressing.

-But for their limitations, the devout were doing His work admirably this night.

Father Howard had spotted Imam Al-Ayubi and his latest collection of souls coming east along Iniyo Street- they being easily identifiable by the red-filtered flashlights they carried. Howard had not even thought of the idea or benefits of modifying the lights he had distributed to his volunteers until the Imam had provided the suggestion as well as the tinted plastic sheeting and rubber bands needed to affect the change.

Since then, Howard's volunteers had been able to move more safely through the darkened streets and buildings with their night vision preserved.

"We're almost finished in this part of the city", Imam Al-Ayubi said without any other formalities as he got to within earshot of Father Howard.

Howard stood in awe of the Imam's stamina- he being the eldest of the four religious men in the non-secular dinner group, and having well over sixty birthdays behind him. Neither particularly thin nor obese, but somewhere in the "norm" of middle, the Imam had demonstrated on many occasions the ability to work beside men half his age as intently and just as long on even the most physically taxing projects. These "volunteer" construction projects were common in a city like Edwards that did not receive the recuperative funding or civil engineering support garnered to larger population centers. Breaks that Howard had taken to rest in these instances had been the pauses that Al-Aybi's faith had required him to take for prayer- but Howard suspected that in the absence of this ritual that Al-Ayubi could have just as easily plowed on.

"Our church is nearly full.", Howard said as the eyes of those who Al-Ayubi had collected questioned him as to what was to come next, "If you can spare a boy to guide these people to the civic center, we can move north and begin to work through that area."

The Imam nodded his agreement, "That should be quicker work- there are fewer residences and homes."

An overlapping series of deep booms, like thunder from beyond the horizon rolled without any warning across Edwards City, coming from a general southern direction. Gasps and yelps came from the people who had been urged to leave their homes for better shelter- the rumbling being mistaken clearly for explosions.

"I think you're right.", Howard replied to Al-Ayubi, making a conscious effort to seem unconcerned by the noise.

In reality, Father Howard knew tthe sound that all had heard well, and was fully aware of its implications. They had heard massive sonic booms, softened somewhat by height and distance as vehicles of great mass passed at high altitude somewhere to the south.

Sonic booms were not uncommon to Edwards City, but these were distinguishable from the common variety and ominously distinctive for one reason alone.

The craft producing them were not common to the skies of California.

"Lets keep our momentum up now-.", Howard said, "We still have a lot of ground to cover."

 **31Km North of Los Angeles**

 _One down, three to go._

The thought was not as pleasing to Winters as it would have been had the "kill" of the elite Quadrano warrior been made by one of the four Knight Hawks in trail. Still, there had been a certain malevolent glee in introducing novices to the concept of dedicated SAM batteries to their first experience.

"Duck Blind 14", the RDF-Army mobile Basilisk SAM battery that stood as part of the defensive ring around Los Angeles had been tied into InfoLink and was tracking the four combat suits through Typhoon's radar even as the Valkyries had been taking up pursuit. A total of thirty batteries, 180 launchers in all on their deceptively swift, tank-like carrier vehicles had been establishing themselves as Militia Flight had crossed over from land to sea to meet the first wave of Zentraedi to approach the California coast.

As the wave had crashed ashore, the batteries had nearly all been stood up to engage in their work.

First action for the SAMs had been high-altitude, medium range shots fired in half-battery salvos at the Re-Entry Transports that Militia Flight had failed to bring down. Despite the fact that the Basilisk was not intended to down prey as large as a Zentraedi transport, in numbers they had been successful in bringing down seven along with a dozen more Gnerls that had been flying escort.

While the transports had quickly slipped outside of the engagement envelope for the ground-based launchers, the SAM units had been given their first taste of blood and were eager for a second- including Duck Blind 14.

The Knight Hawks had spent the few missiles that had remained between them within several minutes of taking up pursuit of Gecko's killer and her accomplices. Furies and Asps, designed to be "dogfighting" missiles and understood to have the limitation of smaller warheads were nonetheless rated as adequate to inflict serious if not fatal damage on a Queadlunn-Rau combat suit.

It was therefore puzzling that for seven weapons fired with seven hits spread over three combat suits, that not a single Quadrano had gone down.

Similarly they had absorbed a considerable amount of laser fire from the Valkyries' cannons with no signs of diminished integrity or flight-worthiness.

Dalton had made the call first to close in to optimum range for the Veritech's "hammer" of dogfighting weapons, the massive-bored, tri-barrel, 55mm GU-11 gun pod. With every second and third round being HEAP and depleted uranium sabot respectively, the probability of the stubborn combat suits surviving a solid, center mass hit were in the order of nil- assuming that the Zentraedi had not begun producing mecha made of diamond.

Buster had not gotten the opportunity to even steady his "pipper" on his selected target before its pilot had performed an incredible, belief-defying summersault in flight to fire a swarm of missiles back down the line at the engaging Valkyrie.

Only the Veritech's automatic countermeasure systems and its pilot's adrenaline-keyed reflexes had saved Dalton, all in the four-ship element knew.

It had also been a warning to Winters, now sobering from his blood-lust of minutes earlier, to back his pilots off and opt for more intelligent alternatives.

From fragments of transmissions Winters had been hearing on various tactical channels, and from what he was seeing through InfoLink on his cockpit's MFDs- it had been clear where the four power armor suits were heading.

The assault force that they had come down with was making to land somewhere in the desert, far to the east of Edwards, well into The Outlands- and these detached Quadranos were making every effort to rejoin them.

A lot of distance lay between the Zentraedi and their objective, Winters knew- as well as the striking area of several SAM batteries.

The individual launchers of Duck Blind 14 sat dispersed across three hills somewhere in the 11 o'clock region of L.A.'s outskirts, nearly invisible with their own search radars off and tracking passively using Prospector's superior radar. Intercept controllers aboard the AWACS had predicted the passage of the bandits through Duck Blind 14's area with ample warning to the battery commander who had made swift use of the gift to prepare in case the opportunity arose.

Rarity of rarities, the call had come from the pursuing flight of Valkyries asking whether the battery was able to engage and offering to hand the shot off.

The battery commander had been only too happy to oblige.

The "trick" Winters had found, or at least suspected with the benefit of "inside knowledge" was keeping the pressure on the combat suits to drive them through Duck Blind 14's kill box without giving away that he _was_ driving them into the trap.

Whether they had been truly oblivious to the SAM battery or had felt confident in their ability to shrug off the threat, the Quadranos had maintained a true course to rendezvous with their landing force- a course that put them squarely in the sights of Duck Blind 14.

Winters had seen the three hillsides light up with the staggered launch of Basilisks. Spotting SAMs was tied into a sixth sense that all fighter pilots developed quickly, particularly after having one shot at them.

Winters had had SAMs shot at him- two over Iraq in The Gulf War and a multitude over Eastern Europe and Central Asia during The Global War.

While Duck Blind 14's Basilisks were not targeting him, and even though their imbedded IFF systems almost certainly precluded the possibility of an accidental fratricide, the sight of SAMs coming off the rail still woke that sixth sense in Winters.

From a generous distance aft of the targets in trail, an interval that the Knight Hawks had allowed to open to prevent having their own noses bloodied, the swift movement of Basilisks over the darkened California landscape was easy to track. Through the green of night vision, the "low visibility" rocket motors propelling the missiles still glittered as brilliantly as gems in a jeweler's display case.

The odd indifference shown by the flight of Queadlunn-Rau at the approach of the Basilisks- an impending intercept that they could not have overlooked- was explained a split-second before the paths of combat suits and SAMs merged.

From their nominal "belly down" flight configuration, the suits had half-rolled away from the missiles, giving the RDF weapons their full fronts- including the missile launchers that resided within the armor's barreled shoulders. With a singular burst of smoke and flame, the four suits put up a veritable wall of their own missiles that swept over the staggered fusillade of Basilisks- dashing them from the air.

-Mostly.

How it had happened against the odds, Winters had not been sure- but three Basilisks pierced the airborne firestorm that had been created by the collision of missiles. These three, whether targeted as such or taking their first target of opportunity, zeroed in on and struck the right flanking Queadlunn-Rau as one squarely in the center mass.

Shockingly rugged construction or not, survival of any manufactured form was an impossibility under the applied forces brought to bear by the missiles.

Winters had seen the anthropomorphic form shatter signaling instantaneous death for the Quadrano inside and had watched the readily identifiable limbs and segments scatter into the rolling terrain of California.

Now, with the violence of that first SAM kill being just under ninety seconds old- an eternity in air combat- Winters watched with interest as the scene began to replay itself over again.

Three Queadlunn-Rau to go, and they had discovered the error of allowing themselves to be driven by the Valkyries. That understanding had come too late though as another "Duck Blind" battery, this one being the northern "top" to L.A.'s defensive ring had waited patiently for the surviving Quadranos to cross into the center of their kill box before firing.

As a pursuit merge, the Basilisks piled on six to a target, but were slower in closing the distance to the Zentraedi power armor.

The Quadranos exploited the time as well as the terrain, dipping lower to hug the deck in an admirable yet desperate display of "hedge-hopping" flight.

The Basilisks, like earlier generations of smart weapons were independently tracking their targets now with their own active seeker heads, and were autonomously making course and speed alterations to better their chances of an intercept and kill.

Unlike their forerunners, the Basilisks were less susceptible to the "terrain masking" defensive efforts of the three surviving combat suits. When their seeker heads lost contact with their targets to the blocking effect of a hill, the missiles switched from a narrow to a broader scanning mode- anticipating the emergence point of the target.

When contact was re-established, the chase to the kill resumed.

Unaware of the features and abilities of the Basilisks, the Zentraedi warriors piloting the suits failed to build upon the terrain masking tactic with a radical change of course that might have succeeded in throwing the hunters off the pursuit. They instead opted to maintain a direct, high-speed course to rejoin their comrades- possibly thinking that SAMs would exhaust their fuel in the chase, or simply fail to re-acquire.

The decision whether made in ignorance or rushed calculation was in either case the wrong one.

A single combat suit emerged from behind the hump of a ridge where four Basilisks had accurately predicted it to appear. Whether the pilot was aware of the missiles or not, Winters saw that she had no reaction time as the four weapons ripple-detonated in her side, throwing the suit down in a roll into the jagged rock and baked earth of the arid landscape.

The suit disintegrated into a shower of its sturdier components and vanished quickly below to port and fell away behind the trailing Valkyries in a churning storm of dust.

" _Goddamnit-!_ ", snarled Dalton in a voice that gave sound to the way Winters had felt all too recently.

With only that one compounded word, Dalton spoke volumes to Winters who heard clearly that the violent deaths of two elite Quadranos did _not_ even the score for Gecko. Dalton would see the last two go down, even if it meant running them into the deck himself.

A metaphor involving a white whale came to Winters' mind.

Winters could at least justify the pursuit now.

L.A. was falling rapidly behind, but the two surviving Quadranos had jinked left- northeast now- either to further distance themselves from the city's SAM defenses, or to seek the shelter of the irregular landscape of that region.

By design or coincidence, this change in course put the pair of Quadranos on a path toward RDF-Edwards, but Edwards City first.

As Winters pulled his mind back into the moment, he spotted the likely cause of Dalton's burst of profanity.

The trailing Queadlunn-Rau was leaving in its wake a thick trail of smoke.

Winters had missed the missile hit that had to have caused the damage, but Dalton's growl had clearly been one of frustration.

"Their on the ropes, Freddy.", Winters said, feeling suddenly that the situation had slipped out of his command.

He needed that back before Dalton's excursion into vengeance became lingering target fixation and someone- other than the Quadranos- was killed.

The Valkyries now had a clear numerical advantage, and it was time to get smart again and use that.

"Dodger, Pinball- put on some altitude and give us a bit of top cover. Buster and I will work them from this level."

Two Valkyries peeled from the sloppy "finger four" formation that had formed and climbed steeply into the sky. There was little chance at the moment of attack from above- detected Zentraedi activity was building, but it was all north and far to the east.

Dodger and Pinball were however closing off a possible avenue of escape for the two Zentraedi now pinned to the deck.

The distance to Edwards City and Edwards Base was shrinking rapidly though, and Winters was not above bringing the base's air defenses into Dalton's grudge match the way he had done with L.A.'s defensive ring.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One-.", Winters called, addressing the base tower by callsign directly, "Wake up down there, we've got some trade inbound your way, and coming in _hot_ -."

 **Brasilia**

"There, sir!- Northeast-."

Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh looked in the direction indicated and gestured to by Naik Rao, whom he had posted as lookout with three other riflemen of his 3rd Platoon, C Company, 70th Gurkha Rifles. From atop the building that his men now sheltered in, Singh was reminded as to why he had been particular in choosing this structure over a multitude of others as an approximation of a fortified position immediately following the attack.

With the sun now over the eastern horizon and rising, this the highest rooftop in six square blocks provided an unobstructed panorama of the Federal District, its parks, and decent visibility of neighboring districts of the city. The damage that had been done to the already-savaged population center only hours before by the single particle beam strike in the outskirts was evident at a glance in every direction.

Buildings that had been gutted by months of fighting now appeared by the light of day like men staggering from a fight in which they had been soundly beaten. Structures that had been stripped of their cosmetic flesh to their steel and concrete skeletal bones now bore the additional indignity slouching and sagging with their newly incurred injury.

Combustibles where they had still existed in standing ruins had lit with exposure to the blast. Had this district of the city not already burned twice in the wake of intense fighting two months before, and as the result of probable post-looting vandalism only three weeks earlier, the fires from the strike might still have been burning.

Instead, they had consumed what little fuel remained ravenously and had left an even blanketing of ashen-grey smoke that clung to the district filling the manmade valleys of streets with the same.

Between low-rise commercial office and government buildings and through the gaps afforded by street intersections, Singh was able to quickly fix upon the sight that Naik Rao intended for him. The angled, armored shoulders of a Gladiator Mk IIII with a PBC-7 particle beam accelerator barrel protruding from each like an unspoken assurance of violence to challengers moved swiftly west. The Destroid's heavy, quick-paced mechanical step reached the Gurkhas in their OP over the low and persistent moan of the morning breeze- but was indicative of more than the one Gladiator in motion.

A Destroid unit- the one attached to Homestead whose drivers Singh had met in passing- was no doubt the one on the move.

Naib Subedar Singh toggled the visual zoom feature in his CVR-3 armor's helmet, alternating between enlarged glimpses of the Mk III to his north, and then trying to peer through the succession of gaps between buildings to search for the other RDF mecha that he knew to be somewhere..

As relieved as Singh should have been to see the mecha- a clear indication that despite the drop in communications that there was life and military organization still at Homestead- his optimism was reserved. The Gurkha platoon leader had a vantage point that the Destroid drivers did not, and with it a level of situational awareness that the mecha unit lacked.

To the west was the complementary element to what Naik Rao had called Singh urgently to the roof to see.

Approaching at a steady, unhurried pace with the sun behind and under a screen of drifting smoke, there were _other_ mecha on the march.

An overflight and quick retreat of Aztec attack helicopters minutes earlier had drawn the attention of one of the Gurkha riflemen to the district to the west that lay beyond one of Brasilia's expansive public parks.

Through the mist-like veil of smoke, glimpses of menace had been seen.

Skull-like, bulbous bodies with a single, centered, unblinking red eye rode towering on legs that seemed comically thin and incapable of carrying such mass with their chicken-like step emerged first alone and then in pairs and groups, entering the western edge of the park. Particle beam cannons, mounted high on the bodies of these Regult Battle Pods like the antenna of insects swept the terrain before them- searching eagerly for a target that warranted their use..

Just over two kilometers distant, Singh, Rao, and the riflemen atop the building could see clearly enough as the Regults formed and advanced slowly in assault formation into and through thatches of trees as tall as themselves- causing ripples through the canopy with their movement. Only the missile launchers of "light" and "heavy" artillery Regults, and the stretched, elliptical sensor array of a Scout Pod remained constantly above the treetops and marked the progress of this probing platoon.

Whether the Zentraedi were aware of the Gladiators who were approaching the eastern edge of the park, it was unclear. The Aztecs had inadvertently spoiled the possibility of a complete surprise and ambush- but an enemy slowed significantly by caution was in some instances as desirable as one caught off-guard.

"How can we warn them?", Rao asked Singh- it occurring to the Naib Subedar only as a second thought that his corporal was referring to the Gladiators.

Singh had thought that very question through himself and provided Rao the only answer he could.

"We don't-. The Aztecs spotted that unit anyway, and if there isn't a UAV orbiting now, one is coming. We hold this position and keep our heads down."

Singh felt Rao's reaction and let it pass without comment. Gurkhas, either by ethnic or unit affiliation did not like shying away from a fight when one was validly to be had.

But there were other considerations as well.

Singh had fifteen of his men sheltering on the ground floor of the building in what had once been an office lounge or waiting area. To the man, including his medic, they were incapacitated with radiation burns and shrapnel wounds from when the particle beam blast had caught them exposed, enjoying the luxury of a bivouac fire that Singh had allowed given the "hostile free" condition of the area. And while Singh had suffered moments of guilt and self-loathing at allowing his men such a relaxed posture when manning an OP, he reminded himself that he had rigidly adhered to keeping the perimeter guards and sentries on duty in their full CVR-3.

Himself included, Singh knew that this was the sole reason that some of his men had escaped injury.

Havidar Roth, a fair-skinned, true English stand-out from the mostly ethnic Indian and Nepalese unit, who had accepted the traditional Gurkha title over the more Western-familiar "sergeant" had taken three riflemen on their Cyclones to return to Homestead two hours earlier. Their objective had been to re-establish contact after InfoLink had failed and no success had been had using "line-of-sight" radio to reach the divisional CP.

The sound of the Aztecs minutes before had callously aroused Singh's hopes that Roth had succeeded and that the sound of approaching choppers was the herald of med-evac birds.

Realization that they were attack helicopters, and the further revelation that Zentraedi mecha units were within the city limits of Brasilia dashed what little hope Singh held for a speedy extraction of his wounded.

They would have to shelter in place until the means to move the Gurkha casualties could be found.

Still, the presence of friendly mecha was a good sign.

The Gladiators would not acknowledge a signal to them until the fight was over lest they give away their presence to the enemy- Singh was sure of that much. _Afterward_ though, if they would do as little as verbally relay a message to the Homestead CP- it would improve the chances Singh's men had of receiving the medical attention they desperately required.

The fight had to be fought and won by the Gladiators first though.

-But they _had_ to know about the Zentraedi closing on them- didn't they?-

Confirmation of this came as Singh was assuring himself of it.

The screech of 155mm artillery shells splitting the air rose and drilled into the eardrums as the rounds came in from the northeast. Before the lagging boom of battery fire from the fire bases on and around Homestead reached the ears of the observing Gurkhas, the first salvo of artillery shells burst in a wide pattern over the western region of the park that divided the districts.

Singh could not see the rain of their contents, but did see the distinctive, white puffs of shell casings blowing free with small bursting charges.

There was a moment of quiet and stillness before the unseen contents of the artillery shells- twenty explosive bomblets each- began to shred the park and Zentraedi mecha alike.

The grey of smoke was joined momentarily by thin spires of rich brown earth and ejected bits of torn flora that rose above the treetops.

There were no massive explosions or geysers of flame to indicate where exactly the fall of bomblets had found Zentraedi mecha- but Singh knew better than to expect this.

The shape-charge bomblets were powerful, and lethal to both Zentraedi infantry and their thin-skinned "light" mecha such as the Regult- but the lethality came from the directed force of the charge. The bomblets would once in a thousand instances strike something critical enough to cause a catastrophic, "Hollywood" explosion. More often than not though, the "little killers" left only minimal exterior signs of damage to the mecha- normally a black-rimmed hole the size of a man's fist.

The true damage inflicted in contrast to the comparatively meek mark left was nothing less than gruesome.

The sudden change of pressure _inside_ of the Battle Pod, or inside of the sealed armor suits of infantry burst organs and blood vessels- killing quicker in many cases than weapons with a more dramatic flair.

Not flashy- but highly effective.

Where there had been evidence of Regult movement through the "urban green area" moments before, there was mostly stillness now with the exception of the ripple of explosions felt by Singh and his men at a distance.

A second salvo of artillery fire ripped through the sky with a warbling scream- this time bursting further west over the district through which the Zentraedi probe had passed.

Without the concealment of the tree canopy, the fall of the bomblets was naked in its display of violence. Pinpoints of light flashed in the smoke of the western business district where the explosive hail struck buildings indiscriminately.

Two Regults that had just emerged from the confines of streets and structures received death blows from above and toppled sideways onto their sides with the death of their operators and the destruction of the computers that dictated the complex actions of movement and ambulatory stability.

As the crackle of distant explosions reached Sing and his men for a second time, a fire and weather weakened building at the edge of the western district bordering the park gave a visible shudder and collapsed into itself.

Before a great cloud of dust completely obscured the view of the block on which the building had stood, Singh saw with certainty three Regults advancing quickly south- wisely executing a change in the direction of their advance.

The moment's elation at seeing the steel rain of artillery douse the Zentraedi left Singh as he recognized the alien commander's call to flank right of the park by its southern edge.

Traversing the park and exposing the point unit to the open may have only been the inevitable fulfillment of their purpose- to detect danger for their following comrades to avoid. The loss of a squad, or a platoon- even a _company_ of Zentraedi would not put them off mission.

The unsettling thought that the only target left in the vicinity of Brasilia worth the effort of attacking was Homestead Base did not sit well with Singh as he saw evidence of more Regults moving swiftly east beyond the southern limits of the park.

They were not deterred- only _detoured_ and in the process of finding a better approach to the RDF post.

This unfortunately presented the distinct possibility that the Zentraedi and the fight that could not be far from ensuing might pass directly through Singh's "secure position" in the federal district.

"We need to move the wounded into the parking garage- _now!_ ", Singh ordered abruptly as his men looked to the northwest where the Aztecs had reappeared , moving in a swift attack formation in the direction of the southern flanking Zentraedi.

The Aztecs were nearly due north of Singh's observation post when all four banked sharply left as one, showing the Gurkhas first their tails and then a descending cloud of glittering flares and chaff streamers.

It was initially puzzling to Singh and his men why the Aztecs had so radically changed their course to depart, leaving a wake of countermeasures as they went. The retreat was not even clearly a retreat until first one, and then a second pursuing wave of missiles swept over the park from high in the west and descended in a shallow dive as they traveled east.

Within the first wave, some missiles leveled at a higher altitude in pursuit of the Aztecs that were now running northeast. Others continued to dip to treetop level and maintained flight nearly due-east.

Without the sophisticated ECM systems common to RDF, "fixed-wing" combat aircraft the Aztecs were run down easily and quickly by the pursuing missiles. So quickly were they overtaken that all four Aztecs were struck almost at once and cascaded as flaming debris from the sky in a ghastly approximation of the formation that they had been flying.

The missiles that had dropped to the lower level as part of the first, and as the entirety of the second wave now began to strike at the western face of the Federal District to Singh's north and pass into its interior.

In comparison to Homestead's artillery strike, the Zentraedi missile assault was spectacular in appearance.

Billows of orange flame engulfed and ascended the sides of buildings, churning into dirty clouds of black as plasma napalm warheads sublimated all but the structural concrete. Hopelessly abused, buildings slouched toward the intense heat as their steel members softened, and then pulled themselves down in cascading collapse.

What had been empty streets became rivers of fire that rose in sheets from where plasma napalm burned easily many things that natural flame could not.

A flight- perhaps a squadron at first and then many more Gnerl Fighter Pods came in low from the same direction from which the missiles had approached.

The air and ground trembled with the resonating power of their pulse-jet engines that for a moment sounded to Singh like the stampeding of elephants- a childhood memory that he still found terrifying.

The leading elements of Zentraedi fighters passed directly over the northern area of the Federal District through which the Gladiators had been passing an eternity ago.

Singh wanted- _needed_ \- to see a fusillade of missiles rise to swat the impudent Gnerls from the air, but there was nothing. Not a shot was fired from the sea of flame that the streets below now boiled in as the fighters made their pass and then made their exit with a lazy turn to the northeast.

Singh ignored what the lack of anti-aircraft fire implied for the Gladiator unit he and his men had spotted entering that area of the district. He also consciously chose to ignore that there were other units, RDF and ASC- but _human_ all the same- dispersed through all areas of the district including the one that had been turned into an inferno.

These were unfortunate circumstances and largely beyond his control.

But Singh had men under his command that he was responsible for, and he could affect if not direct their fate.

As Naib Subedar Singh ushered- nearly _threw_ \- his men down the stairwell that accessed the roof- successive squadrons of Gnerls filled the sky above like marauding raptors seeking prey.

In a final rearward glance though, Singh saw something else. Shapes- _humanoid_ shapes descending from the same Gnerl-dominated sky into the urban green area between the districts.

 _Queadlunn-Rau_ power armor.

Quadrano shock troops.

"Gators, sound off!", Major Colven called out on the coded tactical frequency he had successfully been communicating over a moment before with the combat-effective elements of his company.

Things had changed drastically in the interim however.

From the first call of, " _Fighters!_ " blurted out by the Aztec flight leader, to the last- a cut-off scream- it had been seconds.

Whether intended as a warning to the Destroid Drivers of Gator Company or not, the single-word from the Aztecs had afforded enough time for the drivers to shelter their machines from observation ant attack.

The effectiveness of sheltering on the whole was yet to be seen though.

Colven was busily trying to determine his own condition before he could worry about his men- and his condition was _diminished_.

Multiple alarms and warning tones alerted the officer that he had suffered damage to most of the systems near to and outside of the armored hide of the Gladiator. This was to be expected with the most severe punishment though as the armor layers were intended to spare the pilot's life first, and preserve critical systems' functionality as a secondary concern.

Destroids could be replaced or repaired; Drivers were a more valued commodity.

While the Gladiator Mk III was a solid, reliable platform, and even its "delicate" systems were renowned for being able to absorb considerable punishment- there was just no shrugging off the damage done by the heat of plasma napalm.

The Zentraedi missile strike by simple chance had been nearer to Colven's Mk III than he would have liked. By the same token though, he had not been splashed directly with the sun-hot gel, but only thoroughly cooked by its radiant heat.

It had been enough though-.

Enough to "cook" most of his sensors with the exception of standard video optics.

Gone too was one of his two particle beam cannons that would have been ideal for engaging Regults at close range in the urban environment.

Colven's missile launchers had survived intact, and with their missiles protected within. They were also useless for anything more than line-of-sight firing with his radar and laser designator gone.

Oddly though, the rugged GU-11 gun pod carried by the mecha was showing no indications of anything but nominal function.

Colven chalked it up to the endurance of simpler, time-tested and refined technologies.

Still, he was partially blinded, and by the lack of radio traffic on any frequency- also deaf.

This was not a good way to face an enemy that by report of the late Aztecs was advancing toward him in substantial numbers.

Barring another pass and strike by the Gnerls that might still be lingering in the area, Colven knew that his best option was to collect what he could of his unit and return as quickly as possible to Homestead. There he _hoped_ to find that the Gladiators of the wounded drivers that had been left in the rear were still in a serviceable condition to enter the fight. –Whatever the nature of that fight might be.

As Colven silenced the last of the alarms that had been forming an inharmonious symphony in his cockpit, he edged his Gladiator out of the side street in which he had taken cover from the air strike. The mecha moved admirably for the damage sustained as the driver directed it east. The Gladiator retained much of its swiftness of foot despite a slight mechanical limp it had developed- but the machine was moving and that was far better than humping it back to Homestead on foot.

Even at a reduced speed, Colven knew that he could dash back to Homestead in less than ten minutes if speed was the only concern. This was an ill-advised sprint along deserted highways and streets of course- completely exposed to both air attack and ground-based direct fire, so it was automatically the last option.

Contrary to the conventional wisdom of not exposing mecha to the three-dimensional threat potential of the urban environment, a solitary Destroid could actually benefit defensively from traveling by routes with manmade cover. It was at least no less dangerous than moving in the clear.

First though, Colven had to be certain that he was actually alone, which meant retreating to the "first fallback" position he had identified to his unit on the map before they had saddled-up for the Federal District.

Per the operational rules, a breakdown in communications or a general need to withdraw from the Federal District would include rallying first at the fallback position if it was tenable. Clearly, the present situation met both criteria, so Colven was confident that any of the other Gators who could make the fallback position were probably already on their way.

Once at the rallying point, Colven decided on five minutes being the time he would allow before forcing himself to withdraw completely for Homestead Base. Anyone who had not joined up by that time was either likely in need of assistance that Colven could not provide individually, or was in a state that was beyond helping.

Most of the men in the company carried with them a family photo similar to the laminated one Colven had in the breast pocket of his utility uniform, and this understandably made it more difficult for the major to face the likelihood that he would be leaving a number of his men behind. What had been a dangerous but stabilizing area of operations for the RDF the day before had overnight become a desperately-contested, fluid one though. If the situation was to be salvaged for the resident forces and by extension the garrison and attached units of Homestead Base not slaughtered wholesale- then all able combatants had to make self-preservation an initial priority.

A force of martyrs would be of limited good this day and in the days to come.

Colven found himself approaching a bend in the street that he did not remember.

He slowed his Gladiator, hoping that a gutted building or the charred hulk of a burned-out car might strike him as familiar if not as a landmark he that had consciously put to memory on the way into the district for the possibility of backtracking.

Whether it was the grainy, deteriorated video image provided by his faltering optics systems, the position from which he was viewing his surroundings, or some combination coupled with flaws in his own memory- Colven was faced with the possibility that he had lost his way.

Reaching the edge of the district and then moving by position-bounding back to Homestead was not a concern. He could easily reach the outskirts of the district by following the streets east.

Colven's immediate concern was reaching the first fallback position quickly, and before any of his men who might have already gathered there applied the same five minute limit to the time they were willing to wait for others. A minute in this context could mean the difference between returning to base as part of a small group or alone.

Colven was considering doubling back a block to the last landmark he did recognize- a lamp post that had in some inexplicable way been bent to the near-perfect shape and proportions of an enormous walking cane.

Movement at the bend in the street, coming around and toward him caught the Destroid Driver's eye before he had fully decided on turning back.

 _Missiles._

This was the only thought Colven had time for before both struck his Gladiator in the frontal armor of the mecha's center mass, throwing it onto its back despite its substantial weight.

Within the cockpit, Colven fought to keep the senses that he had left. His ears rang a shrill tone as his body ached all over from the force of the blow dealt to his mecha.

-He was even conscious of his _teeth_ hurting…

Colven could not understand where the missiles had come from.

They had come in at too low and level an angle to have been fired from a Gnerls somewhere overhead, and the Regults who had opted to flank the park by the south could not have possibly gotten completely around the Federal District and into his path of retreat.

It did not matter, Colven knew, going through the motions of getting his mecha back to its feet. He could not fight whoever had laid him out while on his back.

The Nacht-Rau combat suit- unknown in its pedigree to Colven in the glimpse he got of it- had stepped out from behind the full cover of the building at the bend of the street. Its heavy destabilized plasma cannon charged and primed, it was as quick for the Serhot Ran warrior to aim as it was for Colven to realize he was being drawn down upon.

Sub-Lieutenant Gorla watched his single energy round easily pierce the center chest of the stubby micronian mecha and scatter its limbs and metal guts in violent spray.

Like a grotesque testament and memorial to what had just happened, the legs of the machine stood still in the same wide stance as they had a moment before when there had been something to the machine above the waist.

Contact reports were being made in brief by other members of Gorla's platoon with the same ending as what the sub-lieutenant would report in turn.

 _Target mecha engaged._

 _Target mecha destroyed with minimal difficulty._

Gorla speculated that the ease of his victory was _partially_ due to the sad state he had found the alien mecha in. He reminded himself not to dismiss the alien technology that was reportedly wreaking havoc on other units in other landing areas.

The next time, Gorla knew, Fate might not decide so heavily in his favor.

He hoped so, at least.

Otherwise, this invasion had the potential of being a great bore…

 **The Antelope Valley, California**

 **23Km Southwest of Rogers Lake**

Desperation was a new sensation to Lieutenant Hralm, and one that he was finding distasteful.

In campaigns against norghil and even a lesser number against Invid- he had felt fear- _discouragement_ even, from time to time-.

But never desperation.

Hralm was alone now- Sub-Lieutenant Bren having absorbed the brunt of yet _another_ ground-based missile attack that had met them head-on from somewhere over the horizon.

A battle-hardened Serhot Ran Warrior like Hralm, and a comrade in many of the same fights, Bren had nonetheless exited life with a scream of terror that had escaped him in the moment before Death had whisked him away.

That scream, and the vision of Bren's Nacht-Rau disintegrating on the desert floor clung firmly to the regions and in the crevices of Hralm's brain where fear resided.

And it was there that fear had spawned desperation.

Hralm's weapon systems were still functioning- _mostly_ \- though an alien missile and less significant hits from the projectile cannons of the two stubborn micronian fighters in trail had seriously damaged his suit's boosters. He could no longer maneuver adequately to turn suddenly on them and fight in the air, nor could he hope to stay in the air for long.

Hralm remembered all too clearly how Bren's demise had begun a great distance back with similar damage to his suit.

And there was that scream…

The lieutenant resolved to go to ground on _his_ terms, and continue the fight from there.

It was absolutely the worst option, except for all of the others available to him.

Still, confident as Hralm was in his abilities to fight this battle to an acceptable outcome- the open terrain of a desert was _not_ the place to make that stand.

Ahead however, there were indications of a micronian population center- small, but sufficient for the purpose. Multiple briefings from intelligence officers had provided the Te'Dak Tohl forces with the knowledge that despite their uselessness, the micronian military forces could be expected to show _protective inclinations_ toward their non-combatants.

This would foster caution on the part of his pursuers, Hralm calculated.

He needed only to put himself into the proximity of _civilians_.

 **Edwards City**

That something was about to happen- _this_ was no surprise to Father Howard.

The sound of Valkyrie engines, deep and powerful in their tone, was no stranger to any resident of Edwards City who had lived there for more than two days. Their approach from the west was not uncommon either.

It was the combination of another distinguishable engine sound- a higher, shriller sustained note- also coming from the west that felt to the priest like a clear warning of danger approaching.

 _What_ happened as Father Howard frantically directed refugees of the city into an alley off of 7th Street less than two blocks from the sanctuary he'd promised at St John's, he could not have conjured had he been given a week to allow his imagination to go wild.

Something _massive_ and with immense weight made contact with Edwards City west of the ground on which Howard stood, and with enough force to cause a sensible tremor to run through the pavement beneath his feet. _Its_ cataclysmic approach was not heard as a pair of Valkyries swept by overhead, rattling glass panes in their window frames, but rather seen by the great cloud of dust and shower of smashed brick that split and rose up like the sea before the prow of a ship and rained down in its wake.

 _It_ burst through the face of a store across 7th Street that disintegrated before it as it slid to a stop on what Father Howard somehow identified to be its belly. The scene, though grossly off-scale and both geographically and situationally off- was stll familiar to Father Howard.

The priest remembered a hill that he and his brothers would toboggan down as children, and how the snow would fly in the creating of a sled path the way that earth and brick had flown before this _thing_ -.

 _It_ rose from the debris it had created in a cascade of dust and building fragments, roughly the shape of a man but lacking anything above the exaggerated shoulders. As it reached what seemed to be its full height, it towered over the two-storey market and single-occupancy apartment that had somehow remained intact to either side of its passage.

Facing Goliath, Father Howard found a sudden and clearer understanding of David's bravery and faith.

Howard hadn't a sling, nor was there a chunk of brick or concrete in the abundance littering the street around him that he would have been able to throw as an approximation of a stone.

All the same though, the giant seemed to spasm and shudder as though afflicted by a sudden palsy. Unsteady on its feet, it half-turned to the left and then toppled over heavily onto its back- demolishing the market to its foundation beneath it.

A breathless moment passed, and then there was movement at the center of the great thing's chest.

All around him, Father Howard realized that the refugees he'd seen to shelter in the alley had emerged in the same daze of disbelief that he was gripped by. All were fixated on whatever was to happen next, and though Father Howard's mind screamed prudent warning at him usher those around him quickly to safety- he could not

Neither he nor they could move, but rather stayed in place determined to be witness to whatever was to happen.

The chest of the machine lifted, swung upwards toward the shoulders, aided from within by the arm of the living creature- the _Zentraedi_ \- inside.

This was _not_ a parable from The Bible.

That single thought sobered Father Howard from his shock more jarringly than had his head been dunked in ice water.

It was not a fallen meteorite that Howard and the displaced residents with him were looking at, it was at its core a _living creature_ that either individually or as part of a greater whole meant _harm_ to this world and these people. Even if those around him had not made the connection yet, Howard understood instantly the peril represented by the alien whose upper torso was now out of its armor suit, and who was showing the indications of being nearly free.

Howard turned on those whom he and his volunteers had gathered and began to shove them back toward the alley. He was vaguely aware of directions, warnings, _curses_ exploding from him with enough force to sting his throat- but it had the desired effect.

The same sobriety Howard had regained a moment before swept over the dozen or so men, women, and children who had gathered around the priest- and in a healthy panic they began to retreat back into the alley.

Looking over his shoulder, Father Howard saw the alien was now out of its machine.

No longer an _it_ , but something tragically familiar in its form and movement, the Zentraedi was staggering toward him with the darkened street lights standing well below shoulder-level. It wore a helmet and flight suit not that different from what Howard had seen human pilots wearing to operate their machines, but even as it stooped and reached for the priest there was something about the helmet masking the face that still gave the Zentraedi a surreal quality in the human's eyes.

Hralm fought to focus as the ringing in his ears came and went with bursts and spots of light that danced through his vision. A distant sensation of vertigo rushed suddenly over him, but with effort he managed to stay on his feet despite it hitting him as he was bowed over.

The cold night air that tasted slightly sweet to him did much to keep Hralm from drifting completely into a daze.

While he could not remember why specifically, he remembered that he needed one of these creatures that were now retreating before him.

One in particular was standing its ground as though in its puny proportions it posed any threat to a Serhot Ran Warrior.

It even snatched a fragment of debris from the ground and hurled it harmlessly into the palm of Hralm's hand as he reached for it.

It was an admirable yet futile display of courage.

The small thing twitched and struggled feebly in Hralm's grip as he raised it to eye level. Its eyes blazed in both terror and defiance- a mixed expression that Hralm had seen many times on the faces of norghil before dispatching them.

The tiny mouth worked in a constant frenzy of words that were lost under _that shriek_ that mingled with the horrid ringing in Hralm's ears.

 _The shrieking…_

 _What was that shrieking?..._

" _HEY THERE!"_

The words, meaningless in the alien tongue nonetheless caused Hralm to spin in reflex toward them.

One of the alien fighters that had hunted him to ground- clearly the same, but strangely different in that it had sprouted arms from beneath its wings and now stood on legs that were not totally dissimilar from those of a Regult squatted in the street less than ten paces away. The blast of thruster exhaust- the source of the screech that Hralm had not been able to identify in his grogginess- still scattered debris in the street beneath the mecha's feet as the engines powered down.

-And Hralm's mind cleared to realize that it was pointing an ugly, rifle-like weapon directly at him.

" _Don't squeeze the shaman_."

The GU-11 gun pod roared, illuminating that block of 7th Street with the muzzle flash of its discharge.

55mm shells tore a hole through the chest of the Zentraedi in a cloud of dark blue flesh and blood that settled onto the street like gruesome dew as the lifeless giant's body crumpled at the knees and rolled backwards into a butchered heap.

Winters safetied the gun pod, and as Dalton's Guardian came down to earth on the other side of the slaughtered alien. As the moment of action ebbed, the pilot felt a surge of panic for the priest whose life the whole exercise had been intended to save.

"Freddy- check him! He has the Vickers!"

Dalton nudged the Zentraedi's lifeless right arm that had come to rest at his side with the muzzle of his own gun pod. The movement loosened the fingers enough to allow the escape of the clergyman, who came free of the fist like an agitated cat leaving a sack.

Without any intent of drama, Winters exhaled the full contents of his lungs in grateful relief which was amplified as he had not switched off his Valkyrie's loudspeaker system.

" _Oh, thank Christ, Padre-."_

Father Howard paused in his effort to pat himself down thoroughly and verify that all of the parts were still in working order.

"Lieutenant Colonel Winters?.."

"Yes-. Fancy meeting you here like this. Christmas miracle, eh?", Winters snickered- giddy with the rush of post-violence endorphins.

"Talk about a new spin on _Guardian_ angels-.", Dalton added glibly.

Howard, satisfied that there was no damage beyond bruising quickly made The Sign of The Cross in the direction of Winters', then Dalton's Guardians, saying simply as he hastened toward the alley through which the refugees had fled, "The Lord keep you both. –And Winters-."

"-Padre?"

"Don't blaspheme."

Winters gawked inadvertently as the clergyman withdrew from sight, leaving the two Guardians standing over the dead invader whose blood had begun to run in streams from a growing pool into the gutter.

"- _You're welcome…._ "

Looking over the corpse between them, Winters easily saw into Dalton's cockpit to find his XO looking utterly deflated. Dalton's head had rolled forward to rest chin-to-chest, and moved side to side in what Winters instantly recognized as an unconscious display of self-chastising.

"Freddy, are you okay there?"

Dalton swept his face with his hand wearily as he raised it to meet his friend's gaze.

"Yeah- fine. I did a really stupid thing, didn't I?"

Winters was not up to a cathartic moment, but understood that Dalton needed to vent- if only a little.

"Not the dumbest thing I've ever seen, but somewhere in the top twenty or so."

Dalton shook his head continuously, "-I'm sorry-. Look if you need to-."

Winters saw the direction Dalton's thoughts were going, "Oh, _God no_ -. No one should have an inquiry made against them after what's happened tonight- and you know how I hate paperwork anyway. I'm satisfied to let the whole thing drift if you _swear_ to me that it won't happen again, and as long as Arnie and Ganyet don't bring it up-. –I need you around, Freddy."

Dalton nodded, "Done… -Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"No, _seriously-_. Thanks, Jack."

"Seriously, _don't mention it._ I mean don't mention it to anyone-. If Ganyet hears that you charged off as she was ordering us back to base, and that I hadn't sanctioned it, and wasn't handing you your ass for it-. That would be it for both of us."

"Done.", Dalton said, and this time it was.

Dodger and Pinball made a low-level, low speed pass over the street in which the two Guardians still stood over the slain Zentraedi. Winters was not sure how long it had been since Dalton had taken up pursuit of the aliens, and since he and the other two Valkyrie pilots had joined- but he knew that they were all being missed by now.

More importantly, the Zentraedi had not been stopped, or even significantly slowed in their landing operations.

Winters knew he had to get all of his surviving pilots and functioning ships back to Edwards to re-arm and sortie again.

"Jack-."

Dalton's voice had changed significantly in the span of Winters' thoughts. He was off of apologies, and clearly sounding concerned about something that was eluding Winters.

"Freddy?"

"What's wrong with this picture?"

"It's Christmas Eve and I'm not blotto and horizontal?.."

"No, _this_ picture-."

Dalton's Guardian motioned toward the dead Zentraedi warrior with the muzzle of its gun pod.

Winters looked- carefully. When the point of Dalton's concern escaped his first examination of the gristly mess, he tired again.

This time it clicked, and Dalton gave Winters' realization of the obvious voice.

" _No tits._ This crawled out of a female armor suit, and it's a dude, Jack."

Winters was not prepared to perform a full anatomical check, but every element of the dead alien's form indicated a _male_ warrior.

"Zentraedi corss-dressers-. Who would have guessed?"

Dalton's expression was sober and grave.

"This _has to be_ significant somehow, Jack. Intelligence has got to come out and check out this ditto and his power armor. The energy weapon, whatever it was, that killed Gecko- _I've_ never seen anything like it- and I've seen _everything_ in the Zentraedi inventory."

Winters nodded, "I think you're right, but we have to get back to Edwards to report it."

Dalton motioned to the sky, saying as though opening a door, "After you-."

Winters fired his thrusters and felt _Marilyn_ easily lift free of the deck.

As the block of Edwards City and its buildings fell away, Winters was joined in his ascent and slow turn east toward base by Dalton

The sky over the Mojave was beginning to lighten ever so slightly, the first hints at the approaching day.

"Jack-?"

"Freddy?"

"Did you really say, _don't squeeze the shaman?_ "

"What?- I thought it was appropriate _and_ witty."

" _Don't squeeze the shaman?_ ", Dalton laughed, "How long have you been waiting to use that nugget?"

"I swear, it just came to me."

"Right-."

"Oh, and you could have done better?"

" _Maybe-_. Sure."

"Well, let's hear it then, Mr. Rickles-."

"I was leaning toward- _le'go my dago._ "

Winters laughed, "Jesus, now _that's_ awful!"

"Yeah, I know.", Dalton admitted, "Oh, and Jack-."

"Freddy?"

"Don't blaspheme."

 **Yellowstone City**

The skies above the alien capital shook constantly with the waves of Gnerls passing over as the city itself continued to burn intensely.

Sub-General Jekketh descended the gangway ramp of his shuttle which had brought him down from his orbiting command ship at the first indication that the airspace had been secured.

In the midst of the flame and smoke, and with the alien sun only beginning to edge over the eastern horizon, there was little about this city that stood out strongly to Jekketh as being indicative of a ruling seat. There was nothing recognizable in the ruins that spoke of power or even suggested pride in the civilization that was governed from this place.

If he had known the prize to be so unremarkable, Jekketh might have elected foregoing his tradition of personally going to inspect it- had it not been a _tradition._

Unadorned and unimpressive as the city was, this did not tarnish is any way Jekketh's accomplishment.

 _Swift victory._

 _Overwhelming victory._

While the fighting was still intense in most of the landing zones over this hemisphere of the world, and though landing zones on the other had not yet even been established- this act was still an indication of victory.

Only hours before, Jekketh reminded himself, Breetai and the leaders of his weak alien allies had occupied this very same city.

This may not have been _complete_ victory yet, but it was victory.

A _hollow_ victory.

While Jekketh observed his tradition, the element of his tradition that he chose to ignore was that he was observing it _alone._

Jekketh had been alerted of the unexpected sighting of Zor's Battle Fortress- apparently restored to full-functionality- and had been witness to the exchange between Supreme General Krymina and Breetai before his cowardly retreat.

Like Krymina, Jekketh felt the sting of being deprived of full potential of that confrontation- not a single shot had been fired from either side.

Jekketh felt the sting of Breetai's slight more acutely also.

Without Breetai here, and without Zor's Battle Fortress here on this world, Supreme General Krymina's attention was elsewhere.

She had not declined Jekketh's traditional invitation to accompany him to the surface; she had simply _not acknowledged it._

No doubt, her mind was already involved in the chase she would soon be making in hopes of cornering Breetai and forcing him to face Fate's inevitable judgment.

Until this was done, Jekketh knew that she would neither see nor appreciate the colossal contribution that his subjugation of this world was to her vision for the future of the Te'Dak Tohl.

It would come though.

Jekketh assured himself that it would come.

And when it did, he was determined that his quelling of the aliens' resistance would be a feat worthy of her gratitude.

Jekketh's personal aides and staff had accompanied him, and had similarly disembarked to participate in the triumph.

The sub-general had not spoken to any of them up to this point- he rarely if ever did while appreciating the moment.

They all noticed in him an agitation as he passed their small group, headed again for his shuttle whose engines had only completed idling down less than a minute before.

"Come, we are leaving.", Jekketh said without pausing or caring to see if he would be followed, "There is no value to an empty city."

"We still have work to be done to seize this planet's only value."

208


	6. Those Who Would Hold The Line

**Chapter Five**

 **Those Who Would Hold the Line**

"SitRep as follows:"

"Communications with command- _nil._ "

"Contact with the enemy- _on all points_."

"Provisions and ammo- _low_."

"Chances of extraction- _less than promising._ "

"Yep, this _has_ _gotta be_ war."

"-These are the things they _don't_ put in the recruiting brochures…"

\- Lieutenant Edward James Whilite

3rd Platoon, Echo Company,

4th Ranger Regiment

 **RDF Fairchild Base,**

 **Alaska**

Lieutenant Commander Thomas Jefferson Queffle had slowly become aware of the harsh, white light bathing him mercilessly, and that he could not summon the strength to raise a hand to shield himself, or to roll to roll away from the glare.

He knew he wasn't dead- the uniform, throbbing ache throughout his body told him as much- and that this was not the hallowed glow of The Pearly Gates welcoming him home.

Certainty of his true whereabouts was not coming to him though.

He only knew he was under white light and that for some reason he was only aware of it through the leaden lid of his right eye.

"Commander Queffle?-.", a woman's raspy voice said to him on breath smelling strongly of coffee carrying through air that was cloying with the sanitary odor of antiseptic, "Can you hear me?"

Queffle tried to reply. He was unsure of what he was trying to say, but it was of no matter because his tongue felt thick and the noises that escaped his lips were far removed from intelligible words.

"Relax- you're safe.", said the woman's voice. There was a hint of cinnamon to the coffee she breathed on him.

She was however misunderstanding Queffle's immediate concerns, having her own to deal with.

Queffle tried to speak again, this time finding more success with annunciation in each successive word.

"-My crew-. Is my crew alright?'

Queffle tried, ill-advisedly, to open his right eye and was punished by the dagger stab of unsympathetic fluorescent illumination he had known to be waiting on the other side of his eyelid.

"Take it slow, Commander- your crew _is_ here, and safe. Do you know where _here_ is?"

Fragments of memories- disorganized and overall, foggy- swirled around inside of Queffle's skull much like-. Much like he had inside a corridor aboard Archer 42.

"I'm not on my station- that's gone- _I remember that_. I've got to be in a hospital somewhere, but I couldn't guess where-. Can I open my eyes- _eye_ now?"

Queffle felt the light level around him diminish.

" _Slowly._ ", the coffee-infused words instructed.

The commander's eyelid parted hesitantly, experimentally at first- allowing a quick peek of the world outside before clamping shut again. Several seconds passed before it would allow a second glimpse of his surroundings, which he found to be exactly what he expected.

His world expanded to the confines of a white isolation curtain that enclosed his hospital bed on all sides except for small gaps at the head where the ends of the curtain met the wall in their ceiling track. Around him there were no other visible details of the room worthy of noticing.

A short, thick-bodied woman- possibly of Central Asian descent- with close-cut hair of ebony curls stood close enough by the bedside in a white doctor's coat and appropriate duty attire to be the speaker/breather with whom Queffle had been conversing. Behind her, towering like a Great Sequoya with lanky build and an obsidian complexion made comparatively darker by sea-foam colored scrubs, was a male nurse with a shaven head who was quickly making notes on a tablet computer.

"I'm Dr. Harvey.", the physician said, sitting on the side of the bed with a visible relief that clearly stemmed from a rest from hours on her feet, "-And you're in hospital at Fairchild Base. Do you remember how you got here?"

The grogginess was fading quickly from Queffle, and he found it being replaced with equal speed by impatience, " _Clearly_ , Doc-."

Queffle, without knowing why himself, tried to sit up and was racked with flashes of sharp pain that ran powerfully through his limbs and body. The exercise ended with an audible grunt and little movement to show for the attempt.

"-And _that_ answers my next question-. _How do you feel?_ ", Dr. Harvey said with an _I told you so_ tone to her words, "We'll get you sitting up in a few minutes here, but it's not going to be pleasant. You have no broken bones, but you've got enough contusions to pass for someone who walked into a pack of football hooligans wearing the wrong team's jersey."

"Well, black and blue have always been good colors for me.", Queffle said, attempting humor but finding it not only to _not_ be the best medicine at the moment- but painful in much the same way as his attempt to move had been..

"-Getting back to your question. I remember ordering the crew to abandon their posts, and remember getting to the shuttle deck. Then I was in the shuttle and we had landed- a _water landing_ -. –And then the rafts-."

Harvey's hand came to rest on his soothingly, "This isn't a debriefing, take your time. Don't rush it. Three of your shuttles made it to Fairchild and landed. Your shuttle had to ditch because of damage. You and your crew were recovered from life rafts. You'd been adrift for perhaps five hours."

The memory of the deaths of men and women on the other side of a pressure door aboard Archer 42 struck Queffle suddenly, powerfully- causing a physical twitch to run through his aching frame.

 _"How many did I lose?"_

Harvey replied without any hint of calculation in her words, "The only important question is _how many you saved_. –And that's _many_ times the number who were lost."

"I'm short on beds because of you, Commander- but they'll open up soon. There were some broken bones, a lot of cuts and contusions, and hypothermia across the board to one degree or another for those who ditched with you in your shuttle- but everyone is going to be fine."

"You managed a lot better than many."

"I'll remember that when I'm writing letters to the next-of-kin.", Queffle said bitterly before he was able to catch himself. It was a harsh statement to someone who didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of abrasiveness.

"- _Sorry._ "

Harvey patted his hand, "It's fine. You're dealing with a lot right now."

Queffle lay for a moment in silence. Standard procedure meant that at some point, and probably sooner rather than later, he would have to file a final report addressing the first, last, and only major combat action of Archer 42. Certainly there would be a board of inquiry-.

Beyond that though-.

"What's next, Doc?", Queffle asked, understanding as he posed the question that maybe its full implications couldn't be answered by a physician.

Wearily, but keeping up a good front, Harvey rose to her feet with the need to move on to the many other patients she had alluded to who also required her attention.

"That's the question of the day for all of us, isn't it? I suppose we're going to find out."

Queffle touched his hand to the left side of his face to find the bandaging covering his eye.

"Dr. Harvey, my eye?-."

Harvey replied with a greater degree of certainty than she had used with her last words, "The optic nerve is burned, Commander. You'll regain your sight, but I'm sure there will be some permanent vision loss. It's too soon to tell how much. I think the chances are good that you'll eventually be back in the fight- if that's what you're concerned about."

"Am I that transparent?"

"No, it just seems like a natural response.", Harvey replied, adding the admission, "In truth, _I_ wouldn't mind a little reciprocity myself."

For some reason- perhaps it being the garb of a physician, or Harvey's overall benign aura- Queffle found the doctor's yearning to be a real tickle of amusement.

"What happened to _first_ _doing no harm_?"

Harvey paused in thought, maybe not having recognized the paradox.

"Well, that's to _my_ patients. Let _their_ doctors worry about _them._ "

Lieutenant Chris "Ramrod" Staff of the Blue Banshees, _formerly_ of A.R.M.D. II space station Archer 42 had never grasped the appeal of tea himself as a coffee drinker, but understood its broader variations and versatility of that breed of beverage.

Like coffee, there were blends that delivered the fighter pilot's friend- _caffeine_ \- and was sworn by, by many pilots who Ramrod had met from the European and Asian sectors and provinces.

There were also blends meant to soothe and sedate, and it had been that kind of tea that Ramrod had been on a mission to find somewhere on the unfamiliar Alaskan post.

He hadn't had to go far. Even as ground crews familiar with the repair and maintenance of Valkyries had been at work on assessing the flight and combat worthiness of the dozen surviving VAF-6 Alpha Veritechs of the Blue Banshees, Staff had found in the pilot's briefing room a box of chamomile tea bags beside the coffee maker and hot water dispenser.

Mugs in a cabinet over the sink clearly had owners by the character of the cartoons and sayings with which they were emblazoned, but Ramrod had not time nor energy to seek permission of their use before selecting one at random.

The owner was likely a pilot and would understand it was for a comrade in desperate need.

Ramrod did not drink tea habitually, and neither did the squadron CO, Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft- but she was in need of what little comfort the chamomile could provide. Had it been any other circumstance, she would likely have been given valium or another sedative to bring on sleep- but the possibility of a sudden call to action was too high to risk any more than the calming of nerves.

Hours earlier she had performed her duty flawlessly- _commendably_ under the most desperate of circumstances.

She had led her squadron headlong into a force many times its own size, dealt the enemy a stunning blow, and then had pulled her squadron out again.

She had with little more than a handful of missiles between herself and her pilots, and sheer tenacity provided rear guard to cover the escape of the crew of Archer 42 to safe planetfall.

She had then with two other Alphas followed one of the shuttles- crippled on the retreat- to the drink and maintained top cover while SAR had taken its sweet time organizing and deploying rescue choppers to save the survivors from the icy and unforgiving Bering Sea.

Then, only after seeing to her twelve surviving pilots and providing details of her squadron's actions and observations to the Fairchild intelligence staff did she even think of asking the one question that Ramrod knew had to have been riding with her all the way.

Perhaps worse than bad news- the _worst_ news- there had been nothing definitive that could be told to her. For all that she had done in the preceding hours, she was left in the purgatory of uncertainty.

Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft had then found a couch in the darkened corner of a pilots' ready room to curl-up tightly upon- and had not moved since.

Tea was not going to help what ailed Kroft, Staff knew- but what little he remembered from general first aid and medical trainings told him that he had to keep her from withdrawing further. Unthinkable and horrid as reality was threatening to be for the CO, she _had to be_ in the here and now.

The airfield had been thundering continuously since Ramrod and The Blue Banshees had arrived. Valkyries, Adventurer IIs, SAR choppers and the various other aircraft that were using Fairchild as a waypoint to wherever their destinations might have been had been arriving and departing in a constant cycle. In his infrequent glimpses through windows to the outside, Ramrod had even seen several commercial aircraft that had been allowed to harbor temporarily from the Zentraedi storm until arrangements could be made for them to move on with military escort.

With this cyclic activity ongoing, the pilots' briefing and ready rooms had been conspicuously devoid of pilots with the exception of the detached Blue Banshees.

It was for this reason that Staff was shocked to the point of physically pausing in the corridor between the briefing room and the ready room to see another pilot in flight gear approaching him.

The thin, ginger-haired man wore the patch of a Valkyrie driver with a squadron insignia that was expectedly unfamiliar to Staff. He also wore on his shoulders the muted oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel.

Staff and the other pilot had scarcely laid eyes upon one another, but the Alpha pilot knew instantly that in their meeting that the Valkyrie pilot had found the object of his search.

"Are you the squadron honcho?", asked the Valkyrie driver, glancing with a flash of contempt at the steaming mug of tea Staff carried and the implication that he had time to consume it.

"No sir.", Ramrod replied, "I'm the XO-. Our CO's in there- and in a bad way right now."

"Injured?", the Valkyrie pilot, whose name by the tag on his breast was Morrison asked with the confusion of rushing into an unfamiliar situation under many stresses from many points.

"Shock, Colonel.", Ramrod explained trying to give Kroft's condition legitimate weight in relation to the circumstances, "She's got a husband and two young kids on Schiaparelli-."

"The Mars base?"

"Yes sir-. Contact was lost, and given the hammering that the Moon bases are taking-. You can only imagine. I'm trying to get her right- or as close to right as I can.", Staff explained.

There was a flash of sympathy that crossed Morrison's grim countenance, "I _do_ understand, Lieutenant. I've got family in Ottawa, and I've got people with family in Yellowstone City and any number of posts- but I _need_ pilots- _now._ You up to it if your CO can't pull out?"

Staff nodded, "Of course, Colonel- but-."

"- _But it won't be necessary._ "

Staff, apparently more tightly wound by the day's events thus far than he had recognized nearly jumped out of his own skin- understanding at once Scrooge's reaction to the appearance of Jacob Marley in his bed chamber.

Kroft did not bear the physical weight of chains, but to Staff who knew her well could see she was under the burden of invisible ones.

"Kroft, sir.", Raven said dutifully, "Lieutenant, REF- Blue Banshee Squadron. How can we pitch in?"

Morrison nodded, satisfied with Kroft's few words that she was _good enough_ to operate.

"-Tons of options, Lieutenant. The worst of the action is far to the southeast, but we're one of three posts in this sector with fighters and the dittos could change their minds at any time. I need to free up my Valkyries for CAP duty and long-range engagement if needed, but I still have a heap of escort work that needs to be done. Is your squadron game?"

"Call us Milton-Bradley, sir.", Kroft replied.

Morrison nodded again, "Good-. We're running mission assignments and briefings directly out of the Flight Ops Center for now. Gather your people and get over there and they'll set you up."

"Aye, sir.", Kroft said. The color had not returned to her face, but some strength was spinning up behind her voice.

"Thank you, Lieutenant.", Morrison said as he turned to depart in the same direction from which he had come, "We'll see you in the sky-."

"Aye, sir."

Staff waited for the insulated door to the outside through which Morrison had passed to close fully before he turned to Kroft.

"Are you _really_ up to this?"

Kroft sagged somewhat, but maintained conviction- _true_ conviction- in her voice, as though she was being held together by sheer will.

"Yeah, Chris- I have to be. Everyone's piss-scared and hurting right now. We can't all just lie down and worry. –Plus, Schiaparelli's only _out of contact._ The damn thing is built into a mountain. That's all that there is to know right now. Doing something constructive- maybe something _destructive_ is what I need to be doing."

Staff wasn't thoroughly convinced, but knew that Kroft was correct on her key points. There was little known about Schiaparelli Base, other than contact had been lost. There _was_ an abundance of work for fighter pilots in the Alaska Sector, and Kroft commanded a dozen. –And _she did_ need to be engaged in something- to take her mind off of the possibilities if for no other reason.

"Is that for me?", Kroft asked, bringing Staff back with a question about the mug of tea he held.

"Yeah, I thought."

"You know I don't drink that shit- but thanks.", Kroft said, "Let's round up the squadron and get our asses over to Flight Ops. We're representing the REF in a sea of Air Force."

Staff set the mug down at the side of the corridor where it would not be underfoot- he'd get it back to its cabinet and its owner by extension later.

"You're a tough lady, Raven.", Staff laughed dryly.

"Thanks, Ramrod. So are you."

 **Yellowstone City**

The capital city of The United Earth was an exhibit of the surreal by the full light of early morning.

Medium and low-rise buildings of all sizes and performing all functions that had stood forming perfect right-angles to the horizontal plane of the city now stood hunched and slouched away from the impact points of orbital particle beam blasts.

The immediate marring done to the city by the twin blasts- the charring of fires that had erupted instantaneously from the radiant heat and the scattering of debris from their force- was concealed mostly, sanitized by a pristine blanket of snow that had fallen through the night.

The clouds having moved away in the pre-dawn hours left a sapphire sky over the city whose uniformity in color and texture was corrupted by the sooty smudging of fires that burned and were too numerous to be realistically expected to be combated by the city's overwhelmed Yellowstone City Fire Department.

Additional evidence of large-scale violence also diminished what would otherwise have been a model of the ideal winter day. Contrails criss-crossed the overarching canopy of blue, overlapping, intersecting, corkscrewing, converging and diverging as visible records of aerial duels that raged at intervals and would certainly flare again.

For now though, the skies were quiet.

Only the soft pop of distant battle to the southeast, muffled considerably by distance gave any audible indication that conflict was still boiling.

Major Morris Hauck, United Earth Marine Corps, stood with a wide stance atop what was the immediate "high ground" for the benefit of surveying what had become for all intents and purposes an unsecured combat area. The fact that this combat area had been Federal Plaza 24 hours before was sadly ironic and quite inconsequential at the same time.

Hauck, when the rubble he now stood upon had been The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces Headquarters had been billeted to the offices of doctrine and training branched in the organizational tree under The Chief of Naval Operations. Neither he nor any of the Marines he had assumed command over in the past eight hours had seen a single hour of active combat. Many, like he, had served in forward operating bases and had been the target of malcontent attack- but their occupational specialties had precluded them from being ordered into direct contact.

What a difference a day made.

Forty-three Marines, thirty-one Army, twenty-eight Air Force, and a dozen REF personnel- junior officers, NCOs, and enlisted- were now his hodge-podge command. All were far more familiar with organizing and managing the bureaucratic elements of the military than participating in the mission that the ranking officer had decided as being the immediate priority.

Below Hauck's observation post, Marines, Army, Air Force, and REF all worked- some in various versions of dress uniform- at the task of clearing rubble and wreckage to free the comrades and colleagues trapped beneath.

The effort was not limited to military personnel however.

Before sunrise, even while it was uncertain whether Yellowstone City was to be classified as a ravaged city or an occupied one, civilians had begun to arrive as well. Some were employees of the Ministry of Defense- arriving by habit as much as anything at the time that they would have routinely reported for duty on a "normal" day.

Others were clearly not.

They did come though, some with as little as work gloves and the intent to use them, and others who brought work vehicles.

At sunrise, just as the scale of the task at hand was being revealed by daylight to those volunteers who had already been at the work for hours, a most welcome sight in Tonka-yellow arrived. A back-hoe and bulldozer with the name of a local construction company emblazoned prominently on their sides rolled up Unity Avenue and turned onto the expansive plaza, passing closely signs prohibiting motorized vehicles in the pedestrian area.

Construction workers, suited for battle in hard-hats and layers of labor-soiled outerwear took immediately to jobs that they were most familiar with.

Major Hauck gave no objection to deferring the specifics of "how-to" to the flannel and denim brigade.

Since the arrival and appropriate use of the construction equipment, the work of exposing and clearing the collapsed floors of RDF Headquarters to expose voids and niches had increased in tempo ten-fold.

For Hauck and the others who had been at work for hours and who were beginning to feel the first aches and weariness of fatigue, the accelerated pace of clearing also brought with it the first rewards.

A custodian in the blue overalls of his profession had been the first to be extracted from a pocket smaller than a coat closet in the rubble. He was bloodied from multiple cuts, bruised, and dazed- but to a roar of cheers he had walked free of his would-be tomb after two Marines had helped him to his feet.

Two male civilians and an Army sergeant in her utilities had been the next to be freed- more cuts and a broken wrist between them- but alive.

Reinvigorated, the improvised search and rescue team had continued in their labors.

The following hours had a mixed bag of reward and sorrowful disappointment.

Eight living souls had been freed and helped from the collapsed RDF Headquarters in that time. The bodies of nineteen had been extracted with equal care and laid respectfully in a line- behind a ridge of crumbled stone and concrete where they would not be immediately seen by those at work.

The labor of clearing rubble had not gone unnoticed in its progress, and to Major Hauck's legitimate concern he had monitored the monitoring activities of _interested observers_ all morning.

Presently, a squad of Regult Combat Pods- likely a patrol element deployed to maintain a presence in the unsecured but uncontested interior of the city- stood looking on at the southeast corner of Federal Plaza at Unity and 7th Street.

Like a half dozen other small detachments of Regults that had come, observed, and departed all morning it was well within their ability to quickly and completely slaughter the gathering of humans moving and sifting through rubble.

Oddly and in contrast to Hauck's expectation of the invaders, none of them had.

If any sentient element of thought or feeling could be gleaned by the major from the uniform and unexpressive countenances of war machines, it was curiosity. Curiosity possibly in the admittedly odd appearance of the construction equipment that continued to work even under their observation- machinery that both in function and configuration were alien to the aliens.

-Or perhaps it was curiosity at the effort on display. Perhaps it was curiosity at the energy being invested in recovering both the living and the dead.

From atop his rubble-heap position, Hauck studied those studying him and the humans at work. Unblinking red electronic eyes gave no indication of what specifically the Zentraedi Warriors within the Regults were scrutinizing, but Hauck suspected that by his activities he had already distinguished himself as "leader" to the aliens. If their intent were to change, he was certain that he would be the first to know.

Their intent showed no signs of changing though. They were satisfied to observe- for now.

"Major!-.", came a call from an Army captain- Schiller- who was second in rank to Hauck and who had been supervising the excavation of what was turning out to be partially collapsed office space.

"-We've got a live one!"

That announcement, not having been heard for some time now, was all the prompting Hauck needed to quit his staring contest with the observing enemy unit and join the site of the latest rescue effort by long strides and bounds over a jagged and uneven route of snow-blanketed ruin.

Rescuers swarmed on the site of activity and a line quickly formed to remove, pass, and discard debris that machinery hadn't the delicacy to move.

"How many?", Hauck asked as Schiller met him over the trench that had been opened through multiple floors of the collapsed building.

"One for now, sir-.", Schiller said, glancing back down into the frenzy of work that was moving both at speed and with caution, "REF officer- a woman. Can't give you a name or a rank yet though, sir."

"Just give me another survivor, Captain- I'll take that.", Hauck replied.

"She's pinned pretty good here!", someone from within the huddle called out, "We're gonna need something to lift a concrete beam!"

Hauck scaled and stumbled down the compressed strata of what the day before had been floors of a standing building to move through a half dozen subordinates in order to assess the situation personally.

In a state different from, but fortunately no worse than what he had expected to find, Hauck saw the upper portion of a woman's body twisted in a contortionist's pose, nestled into a gap between structural members of the fallen building.

As Schiller had reported, she was in torn and bloodied REF uniform of the officers' variety, but with no visible badge of rank. Dark hair was matted to her face with dried blood- but small puffs of breath against the winter morning air showed her to be alive.

Somewhere around the knees though, where she was still partially concealed beneath crumpled sheetrock and ceiling tiling, her legs were clearly beneath the substantial mass of a poured concrete form.

Seeing an immediate need that his subordinates had not in their scramble to uncover the woman, Hauck quickly shrugged off his utility parka and draped it over what parts of the woman's body he could.

"- _For Christ's sake, find something we can use as a lever!_ "

The woman stirred slightly at Hauck's imperative and through his last words he was certain that he had heard her mumble something.

Hauck quickly found a hand that felt intact enough beneath the parka he had laid over her and squeezed it gently as he spoke.

"Ma'am, I'm Major Hauck, Marines-. We're gonna get you out of here, but you're going to have to hold on just a little longer. Are you understanding me?"

The woman's head moved just enough to be a nod.

"Can you speak? What's your name?"

Hauck had to put his ear in close to hear the reply that came weakly.

"Weitzel… Anne… Commander, REF… Serial number-."

Hauck squeezed the hand he was holding, "That's enough, ma'am- this is a recue, not an interrogation. I'm happy to find you-. I finally have someone I can report to."

The REF officer was clearly too weak to laugh, but at the same time Hauck sensed that the humor was not lost on her.

She mumbled something else that Hauck lost under the sound of boots on snow and rubble.

"What was that, ma'am?"

"Ephraim-."

"What?"

"Ephraim is just ahead of me in the hall-."

Hauck nodded, noting that the commander's speech was beginning to slur- indicating shock.

"We'll get him next, Commander. We're going to get you out first though."

Looking up, Hauck found that the civilian foreman of the construction contractor volunteers- a bear of a Nordic man named Swensen- had made his way to the center of activity with a worker with whom he'd been issuing directions through all morning.

Independent of Hauck, the two men were clearly in a strategy session for what needed to be done to free the survivor who had just been found.

With a final exchange, the junior contractor nodded his understanding and began a quick ascent to the surface where he could begin to carry out his direction.

"What's the plan?", Hauck asked, a concession implied that he was out of his scope to dictate action at this point.

"We've got some steel bracing frames we might be able to wedge under that beam-.", Swensen speculated with an air of confidence derived from years of improvising solutions in his professional field, "-It's not what they're designed for, but I think they'll hold long enough. We'll wedge them in as levers and then rig something with the shovel on the hoe to lift. I figure we need maybe twenty centimeters to pull her free?.."

"About that.", Hauck concurred.

The thought of- _what if it doesn't work?_ \- crossed the major's mind, but the only other apparent alternative was to clear the mountain of debris that covered the beam that would still have to be moved. That required time that the REF officer did not have.

Hauck decided to not ask the question and rather just nodded his agreement with Swensen's plan.

 **Edwards RDF-Air Force Base**

Flight operations, and by extension the potential for _combat flight operations_ had no natural schedule, nor did they adhere to the cycle of day and night. For this reason as much as any other, the Flight Operations Center was made impervious to indicators of time beyond the clocks on the wall that kept accurately the hour, minute, and second in time zones of importance.

No windows allowed visual indication of dawn, day, dusk, or night- only a constant twilight level of illumination that facilitated the most ideal viewing conditions for high-resolution plasma screens and holographic displays prevailed.

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Winters felt completely in his place at the moment with these chronologically ambivalent surroundings.

At the last glance at his wristwatch, he was pushing thirty hours since he had lest slept, but was feeling the natural weariness only under a substantial veneer of adrenaline, caffeine, nicotine, and RDF-sanctioned amphetamines.

Freddy "Buster" Dalton had pronounced it a "fighter pilot's _fortified_ breakfast" quite unexpectedly as cook's assistants from the base's mess had arrived at the FOC door to hand off polystyrene boxes containing hastily assembled, easy-to-handle meals for personnel whose last thoughts were food. Not authorized to enter the classified FOC themselves the mess personnel had left the final act of delivery to enlisted within the suite – and with that duty the possibility of absorbing words of discontent.

Winters hadn't minded what he had found in the box. He had not noticed particularly either, but with all that was going on around him a halved pita stuffed with sausage crumbles (possibly real), egg (also standing a chance of having come from a chicken), cheese (cows likely involved), and fried potatoes was enough to quell the distant indications of impending hunger.

Swallowing the hand-held buffet of cholesterol in eight bites as operational discussions went on around him, Winters still found his mind had the latitude to be concerned that "Isn't" Cohen from his command- an Israeli Air Force "legacy" contribution to the RDF- might inadvertently stray from the kosher path in the general rush and chaos of the morning.

It was a fleeting thought that Winters did not dwell on. Cohen was consistent with keeping his diet in line with God's edicts as seen by his faith- and was likely _very_ aware of wanting to keep in His good favor today like everyone else.

Two cups of black coffee, a "Go Pill" best taken with something in the stomach, and a third cigarette that Winters was now finishing and preparing to discard into the ashcan that some thoughtful individual had made the effort to provide below the large "Smoking Prohibited" sign had rounded out the nourishment the pilot had taken in since finger foods and generous amounts of alcohol the night before at Roxanne's establishment.

Winters was confident in the supposition that a good many of his meals in the near future were to be taken in the way of this morning's breakfast and with similar offerings- as they pertained to the "pharmaceutical course" at least. "Go Pills" were not a permanent substitute for sleep, but any pilot who had served in a fast-tempo operation could attest that they could be counted on to stand in admirably for a while.

Winters was far from that point though, and if there was anything that threatened to cause him to feel fatigue- it was the ongoing debate with Edwards' senior J-2, an Air Force lieutenant colonel who had rotated into the "Joint" Intelligence billet at roughly the same time that Winters had been enjoying his hiatus from active flight status following what was commonly and benignly referred to around post as "The Salvador Thing".

"You're certain then that it was a male?", Frick, the most immediate cause of Winters' irritation asked- _again_. A quick debriefing on the engagement and chain of events hours before that had terminated on a downtown street in Edwards City had stuck on this particular point.

"Did I check the plumbing?-.", Winters baited, "- _No_. But it was a male Zentraedi Warrior that crawled out of that power armor, and that I shot. I can distinguish between male and female at a glance- it's a constant ability that's served me well over the years even through brushes with debilitating inebriation-."

Dalton who stood outside of the soft light of the central holographic display around which most of the air wing and base's senior staff were gathered and whose continued presence was confirmed by the occasional red glow of his cigarette joined in on his friend and commanding officer's behalf.

"You've got gun footage from _three squadrons_ showing those suits in the mix with us. You've got _our_ footage from running the bastards down. And you've got _Jack's_ footage of him airing the goddamn ditto out. _What more do you want- and in light of current events, why is it so important?_ "

Lt Col Frick, roughly the same age as Dalton but probably engaged currently with the two pilots in the most active fight of his life was unflinching in defense of his line of continued inquiry.

"-Because, Colonel, _male_ Zentraedi do not operate _female_ Zentraedi mecha. Even if males had access to _Queadlunn-Rau_ power armor, which they _wouldn't_ for a dozen reasons that go into the Zentraedi automated supply and provisioning systems- they _wouldn't have the subconscious imbedded programming to be able to operate them_. Even if males somehow gained possession of a number of these suits- to develop the skills and doctrine to effectively operate them in combat within the span of five years-. It just strains belief- I'm sorry."

Dalton laughed mirthlessly and stepped into the muted blue light of the holographic projectors through a cloud of his own cigarette smoke, "So, let me get this straight-. We've just been attacked _for a second time_ by fifty-foot blue giants who were genetically engineered by _other aliens_ , who flew a half-billion light-years in ships that travel by bending space- and you find that _this_ strains belief?"

Winters observed in Dalton's support, "You know, when you put it like that- Freddy does have bit of a point there, Frick."

The tag-team effort was on, and Dalton followed with, "Is _Frick_ short for _Frickin' Obtuse_ by any chance? _Christ, I miss Wang!.._ "

The name of the former Intelligence staff officer lost in "The Salvador Thing" having been invoked and with Major General Butler clearly teetering on the verge of intervening himself in the rising argument - Colonel Mumuni stepped in.

"Jack, Buster- _save it for the Zentraedi, would you please?_ "

Dalton raised his hands in a display of argumentative surrender as he retreated back into the shadows.

Lt Col "Dingo" Duggan of the 1404th Werewolves motioned to Winters and Dalton with the same coffee cup he had filled four times in the period in which Winters had downed two. Duggan had a presence that had that quality of calling people's attention to hear him speak even before he was clearly wanting to speak- and that trait did not dessert him now.

"Look- Jack-O and Buster are assholes, but they're spot-on when it comes to business in the cockpit-."

"Thanks for the glowing endorsement, Dingo-.", Winters wedged into Duggan's testimonial.

"-But I'm not done yet, am I?", Duggan replied, affronted mildly at being cut off in his prattling.

"No-. Carry on then."

"Thank you.", Duggan said before continuing, "Like I said, they're assholes but rock-solid in a brawl. I'll tell ya what you need to be lookin' to besides whether you've got ditto blokes wearin' the ladies' gear- and it's this-. Those armor suits ain't standard battle braziers. I emptied half my gun pod on one through a six thousand meter dive- had my pipper on his pucker the whole way down-. It took that to crack the armor on him. A standard _Queadlunn-Rau_ would'a come apart four times over under that kind of fire."

Dalton returned to the fray from the shadows, contributing to Duggan's account of the power armor variant by adding, "-And that energy _bazooka_ \- or whatever it is-. That's something new in their bag of tricks."

Mumuni, not wanting to contribute to the gang-assault on the J-2, said directly to her immediate commander, Lt Gen Butler, "I agree-. The Gnerls we fought seemed pretty standard- maybe slightly better pilots in the one-on-one area- but the power armor was definitely- _modified_. Maybe they learned something from the beating they took in small-scale engagements and regeared?"

Frick, happy to join conversation with a pilot other than Winters, Dalton, and Duggan shook his head dismissively, "It doesn't work that way- not for Zentraedi. They've fought Invid for generations and the mecha and weapons that were used by Warriors in the first battle are fundamentally the same as the ones rolling off of automated production lines as we speak. Allied Zentraedi have confirmed this. The Robotech Masters control Zentraedi material production and The Robotech Masters see no need to improve the survival odds of a single Zentraedi Warrior when _their_ ends are reached by simple attrition warfare with The Invid."

"Then where'd these bastards get the new toys?", Duggan asked, "That's the only question that has relevancy here- and not much relevancy at that. They're here now- my only question is what other nasty little surprises have they got tucked away?"

A moment's silence hung over the group of officers and was only broken by the muffled rumble of Valkyrie engines heard and felt through the sound-insulated walls of the FOC.

Duggan rolled his head and shoulders, eliciting a series of sharp pops from his neck and joints. Like a professional athlete readying himself to re-enter the game, his face began a steady change to a serious, focused expression.

"Well, that's me then-. Steaks and beer when we get back. _G'day-._ "

Without any additional ceremony, Duggan set his coffee cup down on a classified materials safe that had received other empty cups for clearing and removed himself from the FOC for the flight line.

The distinctive sounds of Veritechs returning from CAP would normally have been unusual with the squadron commanders of the base's fighter squadrons present- but Edwards had made new acquisitions in the past six hours.

Orphans of RDF Base Nellis- roughly half of the composite wing stationed there- had found themselves in need of a new home after multiple, accurate orbital particle beam strikes from Zentraedi warships had rendered the base operationally useless and had simultaneously setting most of Las Vegas ablaze. RDF Base China Lake had fared slightly better in that just under 70% of its fighter and attack aircraft assets had wandered in to Edwards as a safe harbor. As the facility itself was concerned, it was a loss for supporting air operations.

The "air triad" of NORAMWEST had had its two most critical installations rendered useless inside of a quarter of an hour, leaving only Edwards ominously undamaged. Unexpectedly, as critical events often were in times of conflict, the air base in the Antelope Valley had suddenly found itself burdened by almost three times the number of forces it was intended to support.

Major General Butler, flexible yet unbreaking under pressure as Winters had known him to be over two-and-a-half decades of friendship was nonetheless showing the strain he had suddenly been left to shoulder- as facilities had not been the only assets lost in the attack on the triad.

"Alright- mental regroup and redirect here-.", Maj Gen Butler said, looking somewhat out of place in MOPP gear within the FOC. By example to his subordinates, and driven by the possibility of necessity, he had donned the NBC protective suit and left it on even as hours had passed without an orbital strike on the base to which his command was attached.

"Speculation on _who exactly_ the bad guys are and how they're sporting new gear is all interesting, but not _immediately relevant._ Let's stay focused on what is the danger-close issue to us."

By "us", even though the word was used in the broad and true sense, Winters knew that Butler recognized that "us" now mostly meant _him_.

Beside what was sure to be a grievous loss of life in the assigned personnel at Nellis, the Combatant Commander- NORAMWEST himself- Lieutenant General Hume could not be accounted for. Major General Westfield, commanding the wing out of China Lake and slightly senior to Butler was also unaccounted for and had to be assumed as dead as only a fused-glass lined crater was to be found now where his command building had stood the day before.

By order of succession in the chain of command, Major General Arnold "Arnie" Butler had become commander of the battle-scarred yet functional elements of the NORAMWEST Command.

All of the regions of Butler's new command sprawled across the holographic display table in scaled, three-dimensional detail. The additional elements of map gridlines and iconography was in place as selectable layering, as was the real-time position of "blue" and "red" force units. The latter, since the recent destruction of the Earth's inward-looking intelligence satellite constellations was provided by a handful of JSTARS aircraft flying select circuits in the NOrAMWEST AOR under the heavies fighter cover that could be afforded- which was minimal in comparison to the threat they guarded against.

Either the Zentraedi had not recognized the function and importance of the long-range, battlefield mapping and C2 aircraft, or they were simply unconcerned by their monitoring as with literally thousands of Gnerls and flight-capable power armor in the region- not a single squadron had been diverted to blind the remaining eye of the indigenous defenders.

" _So_ -.", Butler began in the vague manner of one having to define his own critical actions with scarce resources on incomplete information, "-We have landings all over The Outlands-. No particular rhyme or reason, just the BBGs getting boots to the ground-. Would you say that's an accurate statement, Frick?"

The intelligence officer, eager to distance himself from further interaction with Winters and Dalton was quick to respond to the succeeding COCOM.

"Yes sir, I concur. It appears that the initial attack was a stunning and force-reducing blow to Earth's defenses- ground installations included. The intent was merely to clear a path for what we're seeing and what you've described. The Zentraedi are trying to move forces to ground as quickly as possible to exploit the chaos in the AOR. That's not to say that there won't be further following actions against RDF installations- it just doesn't seem to be the enemy focus at this time."

"Is this consistent with reports from other Global COCOMs?", Butler asked, never taking his eyes from the display before him.

"Yes sir.", Frick replied, hesitated, and then added, "-From what information we're getting from elsewhere. Communications, as you know, are spotty at best at this time. What we can say is that the bulk of landings have taken place in the tropical and sub-tropical latitudes, and the general movement is toward equatorial regions. The driving motivation of this invasion seems readily apparent-."

Butler nodded, grasping the enemy's clear objective without having to have it explained to him, "-Yes, the BBGs want the regions of Earth where the Invid Flower of Life grow most abundantly. We're the bull's eye in a literal grab for power. –God help us if it's a race against The Invid."

Winters, without notice of those around him shook his head nostalgically at Butler's repeated use of _BBG_ \- a throwback to The Robotech War- or perhaps more appropriately now, The _First_ Robotech War, and one he had not heard Butler use since. _Big Blue Guys_ had sprung up from who-knew-where following the shattering of Dolza's Imperial Fleet and the planetfall of a billion and a half displaced aliens. Every planetary region had a variant of the handle in whatever local tongue was most predominant, but for English-speaking parts of the human world- it had been _BBG_ s- which preceded the more common and appropriate yet racist "ditto", or "CC" ("carbon copy").

Uprisings of allegedly "indoctrinated" and micronized Zentraedi in the Post-War years had naturally spawned the colloquial child of BBG, the "LBG", or "Little Blue Guy"- ironic in that even a "micronized" Zentraedi was as physically large or larger than most people at the top end of the human scale.

But for Winters, hearing Butler use the term was just a strange return to a time he had thought had gone by like so many before.

"-I think that's an accurate assessment based on what little we know.", Frick conceded, "It would account for why orbital bombardment was not more heavily employed-. They want the planet intact and can't afford to darken the skies. No sun, no Flower of Life."

"So they want to do this old school-.", Dalton said from where he had joined Winters at the tableside, " _We can go old school._ "

"-At around two hundred to one odds.", Frick pointed out, "And _climbing_ -."

Dalton snorted dismissively, "I didn't say it was going to be _easy_."

Butler exhaled heavily, accepting the situation.

"Well, we're not winning the war _today_. Today, we work on stabilization. Nellis and China Lake are a loss, so all NORAMWEST air operations for now are going to be run out of Edwards and possibly San Diego NAS- once we've established their operational worthiness. Once we've organized that and begun meaningful operations though, we're going to have to expect ditto retaliation on some scale. That's going to mean moving as much of the civilian population as we can to a safe location-."

"What's a _safe location_ today?", Mumuni asked, sounding darkly amused by Butler's choice of words.

"Good question.", Butler agreed, "A _safer_ location. Civilian roads and infrastructure are pretty intact in this region- but we don't have a place to safely shelter our civies if sustained fighting breaks out- _which it will_."

Butler surveyed the map, studying nearby population centers that he was familiar with in a way he had not had to before this day.

"Bakersfield may be the first move-. Hand the civilians off to Civil Defense there. Sacramento has been built up over the past three years to sustain a substantial refugee population- _just in case_. This qualifies, I think."

"We need to begin efforts to move the civilians out of the AOR, and there are about a thousand details associated with organizing and executing an evacuation on this scale-. We're on about step _two_ -. Among other concerns, we can't be sure that we can scrounge enough civilian vehicles to move a population the size of ours north. We definitely don't have enough military ones for that kind of move. And if we do scrape together enough vehicles to move our civilians north, we don't have sufficient forces to both protect the ground we still hold, and a refugee migration."

"We will start to organize the movement, but until we can arrange for adequate protection for the civilians en route, I think talk of actual evacuation is premature."

"No man wants to be accused of premature evacuation-.", Winters quipped, the sophomoric humor likely driven by the Go Pill and caffeine.

Mumuni jabbed him with an elbow in the ribs.

Despite himself, Butler allowed the hints of a laugh to escape.

"Thank you, Jack-. Completely inappropriate, but strangely accurate. So, back to _stabilization_ and guarded _relocation_ of the civilians-. -Anything, Jack?"

"No sir."

Butler continued, "General Weschler from RDF Fort Irwin has consolidated the 17th Combined Assault Division with the OpFor units under his command at the Training Center, giving us our own boots on the ground. Right now they're forming a buffer along this line east and south of Barstow through the exercise grounds of the Training Center in case our BBG friends decide to begin moving our way instead of south."

"Once we've figured out the logistics of moving the civilians, we can detach the ground forces from the 17th we need to support the movement, and provide the top cover ourselves."

Mumuni's eyes scanned over the map, darting with calculation behind them between the southward movement of the Zentraedi, the multiple active Zentraedi LZs in The Outlands, the open topography between Edwards City and Bakersfield, and the greatly disproportionate ratio of "red" forces to "blue".

"Any way we slice it, General- we're going to be stretched _very_ thin."

Butler made no attempt to argue, rather conceding, "We're _already_ stretched thin, Ganyet-. We'll just have to manage and hope that we can move the civilians north before the dittos decide to exploit it. Once we're free of our immediate obligations to the civilians, we can become more _creative_ with applying the forces we do have."

"-And if the Zentraedi decide to _exploit_ their advantage before we can move the civilians?", Dalton asked, the consideration having a greater immediate relevance for him than it did for others in the room.

Butler's face tightened into an uncompromising, resolute expression, "We make sure that we don't let that happen, Freddy- because if it does, we may be forced to make some very uncomfortable decisions."

It was a perfect desert morning; Winters had found himself thinking repeatedly on the short ride from the FOC to the hangar complex off of the flight line as he and Dalton had made it- standing and clinging to the roll bar in the rear bed of a land rover. So clean and sweet had the air been, so mild the sun as it was rising toward its apex that the pilots had even indulged in unfastening much of their flight gear and unzipping their flight suits to bathe in the artificial breeze of movement.

It might have been the amphetamines, or it may have just been the elation of life that came after repeated close brushes with death- but in either case, both pilots basked in the sheer and brief joy of the experience without a word between them.

Winters did not allow Butler's obscure warnings of "uncomfortable decisions" in the event of the worst case scenario to penetrate- or at least he was working hard in the attempt. In glances to his right, he could see that Dalton was struggling with the same- and for understandable reasons, with less success.

It was simply a situation that could not be allowed to materialize- and _that_ was the end of it.

As they arrived, the land rover's driver was forced to slow into a broad, sweeping left turn to drop his ranking passengers off as the tarmac was choked with vehicles and activity that would not allow entry far beyond the gate of the security fence.

As the rover rumbled away and Winters was smoothing his wind-rustled hair for the best fitting of his wheel cap, he realized that the PA speakers mounted on the hangars and posts around the flight line were playing music at their highest volume to be heard over the din of machines and the thunder of aircraft engines as they came and went.

Dalton offered Winters a cigarette silently, met no resistance from the squadron CO, and lingered to light it before the two men continued on foot toward the maintenance hangar that stood only a short walk away.

As Winters sullied the pristine morning air with smoke, the simple, acoustic guitar chords he was hearing from the PA system drew and held his attention for a reason he could not explain. Maybe it was because it was a distantly-familiar tune, but one not heard in some time and he was possessed by that internal contest with self to give the song its name before the first lyric words betrayed it.

Winters lost this time though as Jerry Garcia, the immortal voice of The Grateful Dead led the band with:

" _Well, the first days are the hardest days,"_

 _"- Don't you worry anymore."_

 _"`Cause, when life looks like easy street,"_

 _"There is danger at your door…"_

Winters shook his head wondering if the selection of music was random or if an airman somewhere was intentionally choosing selections with resonance.

 _Yeah, no shit, Jerry-._

"What?"

Winters came back to his surroundings with Dalton's words.

"What, _what?_ "

"I thought you said something.", Dalton said as the two pilots tucked under the tail of an Adventurer II whose nose gear was still coupled by tow bar to a utility tractor as it waited a turn in the repair facility.

"Oh", Winters said, fabricating the excuse, "-I just said that this is a little light for the day's work. We need something more _upbeat_ -."

"Metalica-?", Dalton suggested.

"The Stones-.", Winters countered, "Desperate times call for the classics."

Dalton, somehow never convinced as Winters was of the godhood of The Rolling Stones made a non-committal sound.

"Meet you half-way-. Zeppelin?"

"Close enough to settle on.", Winters agreed, not having time to engage in another four hour debate as he had once had with Dalton on the topic- aided of course by a substantial bar tab.

Entering the maintenance hangar, Winters was able to quickly find _Marilyn_ at the rear right of the expansive structure despite the four aircraft of various configuration standing between he and his fighter. A high hoist stood nearby and had probably been involved in the needed repair work.

Unfortunately, Winters knew, there were likely others who would be vocal about the repair work required- especially since they were extensive enough to require the hoist to make them.

 _..Just take your beating like a man and get it over with…_

" _Hey, Jack!- Winters, Ah wanna talk ta ya!"_

Lyle appeared from behind a supply cart and wove his way through the obstacle course of rolling tool chests and electrical power cords toward Winters, still wearing like all the other technicians and specialists around him his MOPP-4 – but in an open, and more relaxed fashion. The plane captain's face was stern, but hinted strongly of his relief at seeing the squadron CO and XO.

Approaching Winters and Dalton to within speaking distance at a low yell over the sound of power tools, he thumbed at the port rudder of the commander's Valkyrie which was now noteworthy only in the uniform grey of its factory paint application.

"Hey, see that?- _One of these fins ain't like the other-._ ", Lyle fumed much in the way that a partially deflated balloon gave up its last gasp of pressure, "Ah thought Ah told'ya ta watch yer ass?!"

Winters waved his hands defensively, " _I did-._ –And technically speaking, _that isn't my ass._ "

"Whell it may be next time-.", Lyle countered.

"Next time it very well may be-.", Winters conceded, "-But it comes with the job, I suppose. We get to fly fast planes and wear dashing uniforms- but you run the risk of getting shot at from time to time. …Part of the business. Tell me about _your_ business though-."

Lyle cocked his Osaka Pistons cap back to scratch at the sparse comb-over that passed as the hair atop his head as he collated his morning's activities internally before responding.

"Whell, we gave `em all a once over `n they all came out sound `cept fer we had ta swap out a number four panel on Pinball's starboard thruster. Yer rudder was the biggest piece'a body work we done-."

Winters listened patiently to the plane captain's drawling, rambling report.

"What about Vice's kite?"

"Finishin' `er up now.", Lyle replied, "We just changed out the electronics modules in the dorsal bay t'be sure- we can refurb the ones we pulled later-."

Winters interrupted, "Do that-. We'd better start thinking on how to stretch everything as far as it will stretch. I don't get the feeling that we're going to be getting a lot of resupply anytime soon."

Lyle nodded in agreement, showing that his mind had already traveled the same route as Winters'.

"Will do. –Anyway, we're doin' the final post-install verifications now on Vice's IFF…. –Hey, you got time ta take yers up `n wring `er out a bit? -Rudder's aligned `n `calibrated right, butchya never know `til ya take `er out of `er pen-."

Winters shook his head, "-No, I'll have to take your word for it. As soon as you drop the bonnet I need you to get them into the hands of the weapons crews and arm them. The Outlands are taking on a distinctly blue tint, and we have to be Alert Five Scramble capable- or _less_."

Lyle nodded his understanding as Winters led Dalton in edging away toward the open hangar doors through which they had entered.

"Hey-.", Lyle called after the two pilots, "-Merry Christmas, by the way-!"

The cheap, vinyl blinds in the common room of the Knight Hawk Squadron pre-flight building were closed allowing the brilliant desert sun in only around the fringes and producing a deep twilight quality.

Still in flight suits that were opened and loosened under unfastened survival gear rigs, a half dozen pilots were sprawled over the ancient, worn recliners and couches that furnished the room.

Having stood stand-by watch many times with pilots of both flights of the squadron, Wintters and Dalton were able to identify in general the occupants of the room by the depth and tone of their snoring as they took advantage of down-time that would be in short supply in the days and weeks to come. As they had just come in from the full light of the Mojave mid-morning though, associating the snores to the forms was not as easy for the squadron's two senior officers.

Only "Blitz" Rechtberg was readily identifiable by his large, right boot that jutted off of the arm of the couch across which he had stretched himself. –The prize, no doubt, of being the first pilot to reach the lounge after de-brief.

"-You'd think they didn't know that a war was on.", Dalton said quietly as he followed Winters the long way around the arrangement of furniture at the center of the lounge toward the locker room.

"Or that they do-.", Winters countered.

At the door to the locker room, the sound of showers running could be heard and the air was thicker and sultry as an effect of the hot, running water.

Winters had toyed with the idea of a quick shower himself. Not that he had given it a lot of thought, but he was aware that he smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, and the profusion of sweat that had carried the other two prominent odors to the surface. The need to get clean though was more than a strictly hygienic process, Winters recognized. There was a psychological element to it now as well.

Some funk couldn't be washed away with soap and hot water though.

Winters was reminded of this before he was ready to deal with it as he and Dalton found Jon "Rebound" Clifton sitting on the bench that ran down the center of the aisle between rows of lockers, across from the one that contained the late Alan "Gecko" Home's effects. An empty cardboard box was on the bench beside Rebound, but the locker door was still closed before him.

These things, Winters knew from experience, had to be done in small, paced steps.

"-I really need to be speaking to Catherine, you know-.", Clifton said to the CO and XO- that being his acknowledgment that they were there, "I'm just not sure what the right thing to do is-. I mean- do you bring a box of his stuff?-.. _Sorry about your husband, here's his wallet, comb, and a bad picture of you with your kid-._ "

"Don't do this to yourself, Jon.", Dalton said sympathetically but all the while maintaining a distance as though Clifton's state was contagious, "I'm gonna talk to her-."

"My element lead, my responsibility.", Clifton countered.

" _My_ squadron.", Winters interjected with a decisive tone to his voice, " _I'll_ do the talking- when the time is right. That time isn't right now. Leave Gecko's locker as it is- we'll deal with it later."

Rebound swept his hands over his face as though fatigue could be wiped away like a cold sweat, but it remained.

"Part of me, y'know, is clinging to the hope that I'll start to clear his stuff out and that someone'll kick open the door and tell me that SAR just pulled Home out of the drink. –Have they even found wreckage from his fighter yet?"

Dalton sat heavily on the bench at the end of the aisle, and replied with equal weight, "No- not yet. And they're not going to either- we both know that. You saw his ship go down, and so did I. Just as well, I suppose. Anything they pulled out of that mess-. Well, I wouldn't want to have to fight Catherine off from wanting to see it anyway-."

"Gecko talked about burial at sea once-.", Rebound recalled darkly, "- _Be careful what you wish for_ -. –Right?"

" _That's it!_ ", Winters snapped, suddenly and harshly enough to cause both of the other pilots in the locker area to start.

"We are _not_ doing this right now. _It_ was going to happen- sooner or later, it was going to happen to someone. Better that we got it out of the way early, because we need to get our heads around this _now_ and carry on, because _it will_ happen again."

Winters realized that both of the other men in his company were wearing the exact same expression of horror at his sudden and unprovoked display of apparent heartlessness- but their faces also quickly softened with understanding.

This was _not_ the time for debilitating grief or regrets of actions taken or not taken.

That road led only to more flag-draped coffins.

Winters consciously took the edge off of his voice.

"We'll all regroup on this later and have a good communal weep- but today, _right now_ we set this down, or push it down, or tuck it away- and we get our heads back into the fight because _that_ will be happening again- _today._ So shower up, have a smoke, walk it off, and get your game face back on. This squadron still has fifteen pilots to it, and keeping all fifteen sharp on the mission is the only way to keep our count at fifteen."

Whether inspired, motivated, or just driven by Winters' directive- Clifton rose from the bench and brushed past both senior officers on his way out of the locker room.

"I'm going to get some fresh air."

"You do that.", Winters said, without approval or disapproval.

The locker room was left to Winters and Dalton, who waited just a moment longer before speaking.

"You weren't exactly captain of the pep-squad in high school, were you, Jack?"

"Kicked out, I'm afraid. Something about a sullen disposition if I recall."

"Can't see where they got that-."

"Look, Freddy-.", Winters said, "-We're not even a day into this thing-. We can't have the chaps getting into a tailspin- we just can't afford that. If they have to hate me a little because I'm reminding them of that, then it's a small price to pay."

"I didn't say you were wrong, Jack."

"You didn't say I was right either."

"What's _wrong_ and what's _right_ today?"

Winters paused and then replied, " _Wrong_ is what gets us killed unnecessarily. _Right_ is what keeps us killing the enemy as efficiently as possible. _Everything else_ we'll deal with later, and I need you to keep that in their heads. I need your help on this and for you to get behind me, Freddy."

"You know I've got your back.", Dalton assured him, shouldering the weight he needed to carry, "Whatever you need."

"How about a drink?"

"That probably falls under _everything else_ \- but the first opportunity that presents itself, I'm buying the first round."

 **RDF Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Dusk had resolved and night was now blanketing the installation with the accompaniment of a steady and saturating icy drizzle.

It was in these conditions that Collins, Johnson, and Cattermole had walked the last four kilometers to the gates of the Falkirk RTC- joining and joined along the way by half a dozen other graduates of their same training class- all equally soaked, worn, and glowing with the pallor of fear and uncertainty. Like a formation in their own untidy forced march though, they had merged and pressed on together through the outer post and on to the marshalling grounds with little more than brief words of acknowledgment said between them.

Andy Johnson could not gauge what others around him were thinking as training sergeants familiar to him from the months of regimented indoctrination he and the others had endured now directed the graduates toward the trainees' mess. His own mind was dull with the damp cold and with exhaustion, and whirling from one thought to another. Seeing the lines, four abreast, forming at evenly spaced tables at the head of the large room where many a meal had been taken though, Andy was certain that he shared a realization with those around him.

A moment of decision had arrived.

Almost as to confirm Andy's suspicion, Cedric without warning said broadly to all those within earshot, "So what's it gonna be then? Choose your poison."

A training sergeant who all had learned to dread when negotiating the various obstacle courses that ranged over Falkirk's exercise grounds now moved through the graduated enlisted who were now milling in a bunch inside of the mess room doors. His booming voice coming from his stocky frame was as stern and commanding as ever, but now sounded more of _assistance_ than _instruction_.

" _Processing tables are lef' to righ', One frough Four! All Green to Gold candidates go to One!.. All ov'ers, A to E, to Two. F frough L, to Three!.. The rest o'you lot, to Four!"_

Where the tables for the sorting and processing of those training center graduates who had been locked into the enlisted ranks averaged eighty individuals, more or less at a glance, there were no more than thirty in the line for the table toward which Collins, Johnson, and Cattermole had been directed to by the training sergeant. Without being known to one another, it was felt by all three to be a blessing and cruse simultaneously- more choices and less time in which to make the decision.

"I'll write you from the Air Force-.", Cattermole said without warning or invitation of what he was thinking from the others, "This place gave me my fill of the rain and the mud. Fighter planes will be a welcome change, thank you-."

"You can idolize me and try to live up to my example then-.", Collins scoffed, "Remember to think of me for covering your bum from a Veritech when you're flying a cargo plane."

As the three joined the line, Andy Johnson reminded himself that he hadn't actually expected either his friend since boyhood or his friend since somewhere in the first two weeks of training to announce a burning desire for the quartermaster's corps- but hours spent in thought since earning a ride north from a supply depot that morning kept telling the youngest of the Johnson family that it was a good fit for him and logical path for contributing to the war effort. While not a spot-on match, the marshalling yard earlier that day had been the first facet of military existence that had felt familiar.

War, after all, was not all about glory.

Some had to form the solid foundation of the mundane and unglamorous to allow a base on which the spectacular could be achieved- and there was no shame in it.

" _Andy-!_ "

Weariness, soreness of muscle, joint, and bones, and the misery of cold and wet melted and rolled off of Andy Johnson with the calling of his name.

It was accurate to say though that it was more of the _caller_ than the _calling_.

Mid-turn he found Pamela Dunn's femininely toned arms wrapped firmly about his ribs, pulling him close into an embrace that under any other circumstances Andy was certain would have involved a kiss- a pleasure that had to be averted given their surroundings. Still, the soft warmth of her cheek brushed his and his nostrils filled with something delicately floral that matched the way she had smelled to him in recent and vivid dreams.

"-Is there enough of that to go around?"

Cattermole's words may as well have been a bucket of ice water for its effect. Pamela's pressing of the marvelous contours of her body into Andy's chest ended abruptly just as his hand was finding the hollow at the base of her spine.

" _No_ ", Pamela said as the tender warmth she had radiated a moment before was instantaneously doused, "-But feel free to take in the view and wank it all you like…"

"Too late to give him permission for that.", Cedric snickered and was in quick receipt of a caustic glare from Cattermole.

" _So miserly-._ Honestly, Andy- I just don't see her appeal to you."

Seizing the opportunity for a verbal, cross-jab combo, Pamela was quick to retort, "-And you never will _see_ what appeals to him either, Aunt Moggie."

Collins' face contorted with sympathetic pain as he patted Cattermole on the shoulder and said to Dunn, "Easy now, love- leave something for the Zentraedi to have a go at."

Cattermole shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and said with mustered dignity, " _Unhand me, sir-._ If you're looking for someone to defend, that French chap who always smelled of onions is looking lost by the entrance. I can resign without assistance-."

"Easily done when you're in check."

"I'm _so not_ liking you right now."

Johnson thumbed at his day's companions and asked Dunn with genuine concern, "Is this an effect you have on most men? I mean, is there something I should know?"

"Only that I usually do worse.", Dunn replied unapologetically.

"I wouldn't want to see that."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Still, that's admirable in a way. Have you considered the psychological warfare MOS?"

"No, too removed for me. I'm a _hands-on_ sort of girl."

Andy had thought the same thing, only in another context.

"What are you thinking then?', Andy asked, nodding to the table at the head of the line that was growing nearer quickly.

Pamela's expression became suddenly focused, bordering on meditative as she recounted, "From the moment we were graduated, I was torn in a dozen directions. Part of me knew, but it just seemed such a reach. Then, this morning- when I heard-. I had to step outside to catch my breath, and just at that moment this formation of Valkyries flew overhead and I just knew-. I _probably_ will get cut before I ever see a Veritech, but I _knew_ that's what I wanted to try for. What about you then?"

The unglamorous but reasonable calling of the quartermaster corps was suddenly that much less appealing to Andy Johnson.

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

The Situation Room in by-gone days might have been labeled with the narrower title of "War Room" as its facilities lent themselves best to an executive level monitoring and conduct of military campaigns. With access to all of the information and applications required to direct military activity, it differed from the GS-95's Combat Operations Direction Center only in that the personnel supporting the flow of information and executing directions given were absent.

The Situation Room had been so named aboard the massive, self-sustaining base of operations for the reason rooms in the Executive Mansion and RDF Headquarters carried the same name. The Situation Room was intended to allow the President to monitor and direct United Earth activities of all varieties from a single location with the military option readily available.

Unfortunately, as events had evolved- the present circumstances warranted the older label, "War Room".

Much as similar rooms had been depicted in countless films, The Situation Room consisted of a circular table with suspended overhead lighting and sufficient seating and personal workstations for the President, select Ministry heads, Military Chiefs, and aides of all sorts as required by the specifics of an event. The compartment was sound isolated, impervious to the clamor of activities going on only meters away in the GS-95's various operations centers, and equally secure from external monitoring or eavesdropping.

Walls forming the circumference of the room towered and bowed to provide the acoustic characteristics to facilitate conversation between all parties at the table without straining the ear or the voice, and a central holographic display could produce commonly viewable images without blocking dialogue between conversational participants.

The Situation Room was a controlled, focused, and civil arena for both discussing the most mundane events as well as directing the most unspeakable activities.

Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Coolidge was well versed in briefing to senior staff and to The President, though no briefing he had given in his three and a half years at his post bore the weight and significance of the one he was in the opening of giving now. Despite this, his trademark, relaxed demeanor carried through as he stood behind his seat at the table rather than sitting in it and gestured at the central display to which all eyes were turned as he spoke.

"There is no question that the events of the past twenty hours have been dire, and that Earth is at only the very beginning of this perilous chapter in its history-. However, as dark as this moment is, and as difficult as the days ahead will be, our strategic position is as strong as we could have possibly hoped for. Our primary manufacturing facility for both military and civilian necessities is intact, as is the vast majority of our standing Fleet. This means that as the situation and our understanding of the enemy clarifies, we will be in a more immediate position to _act_ rather than having to dedicate time to recovery of our forces to _status quo anti._ "

"Our first and paramount concern therefore should be preservation of these assets until the military staff can recommend, and you, Mr. President, can decide upon how they are to be applied."

"Our challenge then, as it follows, is finding sanctuary in which to conceal Walhalla and The Fleet from the enemy whom we can be certain is at this very moment forming their own plans to locate and neutralize us."

"Under conditions of symmetrical space warfare, I would say that we were engaged in a game of _chess_ \- but we are not at that point yet."

"If we are to equate our present situation to a board game, I would have to make the analogy of Battleship- only with the enemy making all of the moves at this point. Their objective being to find us, ours being to remain hidden."

"Given the vastness of space, we do hold certain advantages at this point- but these advantages can be compromised if not guarded. To fix on us and destroy us, the enemy will need to locate us first. If it were merely a matter of finding a quiet pocket of space and remaining there inert, we could accomplish this within our own solar system. Even with the most advanced sensor systems, the enemy would have to almost literally trip over us to discover us in a _dark_ , or low-emission mode of operation."

"Unfortunately, we are forced even by minimal operational levels to generate electro-magnetic and subspace emissions through communications and through our propulsion systems. Standard radio communications may be relatively localized in the range at which they can be detected, but subspace displacement caused by our vessels traveling by fold or use of subspace compression drive will be detectable at much greater ranges and with less chance of being missed or misidentified."

"The enemy will be establishing a search pattern of great reach in an effort to pick up on these signals to establish our location. Like ripples in a pond when a rock is tossed in, it is not difficult to isolate the origin when one of these signals is detected. -And in addition to their own unit resources, we have to assume that they are linked into the sensory, information, and communication network formed by The Robotech Factories that are still deployed to support Zentraedi operations throughout the galaxies. While the chance is remote at best- to be discovered by one of these Factories is to be discovered by the force that has moved against Earth."

"We need to remove ourselves to a position where detection is not only remote, but is _highly_ unlikely."

At the center point of the void within the table ring where the hologram projector had been displaying images and data for all to see, a star chart appeared showing a solar system with two suns, multiple planets, and a flickering blip that represented Earth's only assets that were not directly under siege.

"We have secured Walhalla and The Fleet here- just inside of three AUs and to the leeward side from Sol and Earth of the binary-star cluster PSR B1259-63 and LS 2883- just over three kiloparsecs from home. The interference generated by the cluster will effectively shield us from monitoring and all but the long-odds possibility of accidental discovery. My recommendation is to rally here until we are prepared to move to a more permanent location."

President Valterven, sitting behind an ashtray of extinguished cigarette butts and mostly-empty pot of tea, made a point of stating as an informal declaration of intent, "Admiral, our _permanent_ _location_ will be _Earth_ again, and well within the foreseeable future. Our collective task is to determine how best to get there. –Please proceed."

Understanding the stress and fatigue of the past twenty hours, and feeling it himself, Coolidge took a nod from Breetai as indication that the remark was not directed at him specifically.

"Poor choice of words on my part, Mr. President-.", Coolidge conceded, " –Until we are prepared to move to a more suitable staging area for upcoming operations, this location is adequate."

"While an extensive survey for a location to establish a long-term base of operations is ongoing, preliminary thinking leans toward V4611-Sgr. It is a black hole in the Sagittarian Arm of our galaxy and-."

Valterven's brow crinkled with thought, "Admiral, are you suggesting that we hide in a black hole?.. My grandchildren could point out the folly of that. If our current position is adequate to protect us, than why not remain here?"

Coolidge nodded following and having anticipated the President's path of logic.

"While ideal as a temporary refuge, Mr. President, the PSR B1259-63 / LS 2883 cluster presents certain dangers for long-term operations. First, the pulsar star PSR B1259-63 by its nature is _unstable_. Its irregular EM emissions effectively mask our communication traffic, but the star can also produce Gama-ray bursts or solar flashes without warning. Even at three AUs- three times the distance of the Earth from Sol- Walhalla and the Fleet could easily be ravaged by such an event and with little to no warning."

"Additionally- at only three kiloparsecs from Earth, with the volume of hyperspace traffic that will be coming and going on operations, the subspace displacement could conceivably be detected by a random enemy patrol. This star cluster is distant from Earth, but computer simulations based on known, historical Zentraedi operations predict that it is still within a plausible sphere of search."

Coolidge motioned to an aide who was working the hologram projector controls for him and who changed the view to Coolidge's next topic of exposition.

"By contrast, V4611-Sgr provides concealment and defensive characteristics that are ideal for our prolonged use-."

The image zoomed to an appropriate scale around an orb representing the event horizon of the black hole. A flashing blip then appeared at a measured distance giving the Admiral a visual reference with which to continue his briefing.

"By placing V4611-Sgr between ourselves and our home arm of the galaxy, we not only screen ourselves from long range discovery by our EM emissions, but also by the inevitable subspace displacement we will generate."

"The mass of the black hole will simply swallow it up."

"By use of this location and proximity to V4611-Sgr, we also build in the additional defensive advantage of preventing direct approach- even through fold-warp."

Valterven's expression which had shown a consistent registering and assimilation of the information being briefed suddenly changed.

"You will have to explain that statement, Admiral-. Spacefold travel is essentially the connection of two points in space by bringing them together- _folding_ space. Linear thinking doesn't apply as I understand it."

Coolidge nodded, "Under most circumstances, yes- that's true, Mr. President. You must remember though, that the folding of space is accomplished by artificially generating great gravitational forces. Awesome as our abilities have become in this technology, the power of our fold systems are still finite in comparison to the gravitational forces of a black hole. We- _no one_ \- can simply skirt around something of that mass. To approach the position I am proposing, a ship- _any_ ship- coming from our region of the galaxy would have to make multiple jumps to first move around the mass of the black hole and then approach it. The relative point of origin of the enemy being known, we can set up defensive monitoring positions using nets of deep-space sensor buoys and a small number of picket ships that would alert us to enemy activity well before they could detect us."

Valterven, remembering Coolidge's words of only a minute or so before replied, "That would conceal us from the Zentraedi who have renewed hostility against Earth- but what of the other elements you alluded to who might tip the enemy off coincidentally? What is the prospect of another Zentraedi operation crossing through this area of space?"

Coolidge considered the question carefully but quickly, "Remote in the extreme, Mr. President. All known areas of conflict between Zentraedi and the Invid are not only _not_ in our galaxy- but not even on the same side of The Milky Way as the Sagittarian Arm."

"And how would this position affect our offensive options?", Valterven asked.

"Comparably to the way it hinders the enemy, Mr. President.", Coolidge said bluntly, "But from the defensive standpoint, as we're guarding from attack and preparing for our response- this location, even with its shortcomings, is desirable."

Valterven nodded in such a way as to suggest that he was not fully satisfied by the CNO's proposal, but accepted it as a legitimate and viable option barring revelation of a better one.

He added verbally though, "The time I am willing to allow our posture to be _defensive_ will be limited. We have a smaller force than our enemy, true- but we also have the _option_ to either hide or fight. The Earth does not have that luxury. Conflict is upon them, and whether it is today or tomorrow- every man, woman, and child that was left behind will have to contend with that conflict in one form or another. We have to begin thinking _offensively_ so they are not carrying the fight alone."

"That's the intent, Mr. President.", Coolidge assured him.

"That intent must start to translate into _action_ for it to have any meaning, Admiral- a topic we will discuss shortly- but first, we have another subject of some importance. We need to know _who_ we are fighting- and I believe that General Breetai might have some insight into the answer to that question."

Valterven's words were by no means an accusation of the Military Chief of Staff who only a decade before had been the Zentraedi's most formidable warlord, but there was the distinct inference that he had knowledge that was not yet common.

Unaffected by the implied and clearly still in a mild state of fading shock, Breetai responded as his duty commanded.

"Mr. President", Breetai said steadily but cautiously, "I have no clues to who this Supreme General Krymina is-. I can only tell you what she is claiming to be, and by doing so explain the Zentraedi lore and superstitions she is hoping to capitalize upon."

"She claimed to be _Te'Dak Tohl_ , which translated as best as it can be into English means, _vengeful omnipotence._ It is a parable- a Zentraedi _urban legend_ , if you will- whispered back and forth between bunks in Warrior barracks for generations much like the way human children tell stories of ghosts or the boogeyman."

"The central and common theme of these stories always being that Warriors, units- fleets and armies as it is told- who do not perform their duty for The Robotech Masters or who hint of disobedience are at risk of incurring the wrath of the Te'Dak Tohl."

"I have myself long since dismissed these stories as nonsense fabricated to make the real threat and dangers of The Invid pale by comparison to those of an imaginary menace-. I still do. I believe that this _Krymina_ is simply donning the garb of a phantasm to give her forces a psychological edge over us."

Valterven, in step with Breetai's reasoning but still confronted with the irrefutable facts of Earth's present circumstances was clearly not yet swayed.

"Yet here we are, General. With the passage of enough human generations, Nazis may eventually occupy the same place in the human psyche as the boogeyman, but this will make the reality of their having been no less real. Did not even the remotest possibility of these Te'Dak Tohl being real warrant at least the most minimal framework of a planned response?"

Breetai replied flatly but with respect, "We have no draft plans for responding to the attack of the boogeyman, or the resurrection of Hitler either, Mr. President. There is no preparing for _every_ possible threat- there is only preparing as best as one can for the most likely. –He who attempts to defend everything, defends nothing."

"Point taken, General-.", Valterven conceded, "But you understand mine as well."

"I do.", Breetai said.

Breetai's expression became distant- removed from the moment- deeply thoughtful as he continued after a moment's pause.

"Who Krymina and her army _claim_ to be is irrelevant. From our first engagement with them, we have already learned much. They are skilled and organized, but they are limited by the same shortcomings and capability gaps that affect all Zentraedi forces. In many ways, once the smoke of the image they wish to project clears, we are still dealing with Zentraedi."

"Begging your pardon, if I may, General-.", said Major General Charyece Clarke, the acting Commander of Military Intelligence who had assumed that role when her military escort detail had been successful in delivering her to the Tier 1 pick-up zone in Yellowstone City now almost a day before, and the detail assigned to her superior had not.

"But after-action reports that we're receiving from units that made the jump out, and from those that we're beginning to receive from units on Earth- all are reporting some shocking variations in this enemy from what we would call _standard_ Zentraedi forces."

Breetai nodded, "Yes, I've read your initial reports and reviewed some of the base AARs they were founded upon. Intriguing, and certainly worthy of note- but hardly a cause to alter our grand strategy."

Valterven, picking up on this topic of interest that had made it to the level of the MCS but not yet to him, asked bluntly, "What _variations_ is she speaking of, Breetai?"

Untroubled by elaborating, Breetai responded with an accounting of what was known, "We have numerous accounts of _modified_ Zentraedi equipment- particularly of the _Queadlunn-Rau_ combat suits-."

" _Female_ power armor, that is, isn't it Breetai?", Valterven, being at least generally knowledgeable about things xeno-military.

"Correct, Mr. President- only these it seem are not piloted strictly by female warriors.", said Breetai, "Inspection of enemy casualties by trained battlefield assessment units in a half dozen regions report the same discoveries- mixed-gender units acting as highly effective shock and special operations units. Quadranos have always acted for female Zentraedi armies as shock troops, but the elements of mixed-gender units and the innovation of special operations units is a departure from traditional Zentraedi doctrine. This makes these details interesting and worthy of investigation, but not necessarily game-changing."

"But it could lend itself toward this General Krymina's claim of leading some Zentraedi _super force_ though, could it not?", countered Valterven.

Breetai, clearly ready to leave the topic but obligated to remain so long as the civilian head of Government desired, responded patiently, "Mr. President, these details could mean any number of things. At this point, we have many more questions than we have answers. My recommendation is to focus on _our_ capabilities, _our_ strategy, and _our_ response to our enemy's opening moves. As we've discovered these _variations_ by examination of their battlefield dead- we can say with certainty that they are quite mortal and therefore governed by the same basic biological rules as we are, and therefore by extension are governed by the same rules of war."

Valterven removed a cigarette from the silver carrying case he had before him on the table and lit it- settling in for a discussion that he hoped would produce some direction for his approval.

"What rules of war are those in particular, General?"

"The most basic ones, Mr. President.", Breetai said confidently, "Supreme General Krymina, so we shall call her, has chosen a strategy of occupation. Even an outside force occupying the most successfully pacified region is still an _outside force_ that must consider the area it has occupied and the indigenous population as hostile. This is especially true of Zentraedi forces, who because of the obvious physical size differences from the resident population of Earth cannot even make use of captured infrastructure or consumable resources. _Everything_ that army will need to conduct a successful occupation campaign will have to be provided through their own logistics system. This is every piece of equipment and every bite of food for a _massive_ force…"

CNO Admiral Coolidge volunteered, "War games and simulations pitting REF Fleet against even substantially larger Zentraedi forces consistently show a tendency for the Zentraedi commanders to neglect critical assets for long-term operations when presented with the temptation of a quick victory- even an insignificant one. If that philosophy applies with these Zentraedi, we may be able to lure them away from their supply vessels long enough to inflict some real damage on their logistics base. Assuming that we are able to _find_ their supply vessels. The principles of hiding a large number of vessels in space I briefed earlier work equally for both sides of course."

Breetai gave a disapproving grunt of the kind that came with admission of one's own flaws.

"That philosophy, while widespread among Zentraedi commanders was by no means universal. I never subscribed to it myself except in rare and desperate circumstances. It is the product- a _child_ , if you will- of two parents.- The enduring conflict with The Invid, and the almost limitless supply of resources provided to the Zentraedi by The Robotech Masters through the production capabilities of The Robotech Factories. Unfortunately the ability of the Factories to successfully perform their function has given legitimacy to the philosophy you spoke of, Admiral Coolidge."

"Why, after all, should you be concerned about personnel or material if they can be replaced almost as easily and as quickly as they are lost?", the MCS pontificated cynically, and as by way of demonstrating the costs of such thinking tapped the metal prosthetic that covered the right side of his face and head.

Breetai's disapproval of a paradigm that had irrefutably impacted his life showed more clearly as he continued with the hint and promise of his point.

"While I can promise that your raiding strategy will be a component of our larger plans, I think you would find it to be increasingly ineffective if it were to stand alone. The Robotech Factories would quickly replenish any supplies and personnel that we would destroy, and unless Supreme General Krymina is a great fool- which we must assume she is not- her forces would quickly come to more vigilantly guard those assets…"

"No, we must be shrewd in when in the sequence of dominos to fall we set that one."

"You sound as though you already have a plan formed, General Breetai.", President Valterven speculated hopefully.

If true, it would be the first "good" news he had heard in what felt now like an eternity.

"Exodus was never intended to be a final act, but only an _opening_ one. We have several operational plans that can be modified quickly and augmented to quickly get ourselves moving in the right direction, Mr. President.", Breetai asserted, indeed having a handful of generic plans in mind that were worth exploring.

"But first, we have a critical operation to plan and execute- an _imperative_ , if I may be so bold as to suggest something that _must_ be done."

"You were appointed to your post and have held it for the insight you have in these matters, General Breetai.", Valterven said with sincerity and respect, "It would be foolish for me not to seek that advice or to argue military imparatives at a moment like this."

Breetai leaned forward and passed his earnest gaze over all who sat at the table for emphasis.

"We need to strike back- _quickly_. Not seeking a strategic or even a tactical victory mind you- but a _moral_ one. We have to demonstrate to our people on Earth that they have not and will not be abandoned."

"We also have to demonstrate to Supreme General Krymina that she has not driven us from our home, and that she _will_ have to fight to hold it. –After her challenge to me personally, I will be very interested to see her response."

"You're proposing we launch a Doolittle Raid-." Admiral Coolidge observed, adding enthusiastically, "I was hoping that might be where you were going with that, General."

"Bear-baiting?..", Valterven suggested, "A brutal and dangerous sport at its best, General. I agree with the notion of sending a defiant message to this enemy commander, but should we be making this a personal matter?"

Breetai became thoughtful again, replying, "Though I could not tell you why- I suspect strongly that this matter is _already_ personal for her, Mr. President. What I wish to see is what portion of this attack is personal and what portion is pragmatic and calculated for a measurable gain."

"If the battle with me caries enough significance with Krymina, perhaps then it is something that we can us to our benefit…"

 **14 Km North of Brasilia**

"One day's rations, fresh batteries in your electronics gear, and all of the ammo and water you can carry-.", Staff Sergeant Byerly reminded her Rangers as she stripped down her own combat rig of all that did not fall into those categories and began to fill the gaps with those that did.

"I want night vision systems and coms checked before we pull up stakes here. Silencers on your weapons, war paint on, and tape down your gear- I don't want to hear anything but the breeze through the grass while we're on the hump. We're on a creep `n peep and you can bet we're going to get close with the dittos headed back to Brasilia. _Stealth is your friend._ "

Lieutenant Whilite was in the process of patting himself down to check for possible snag points on his armor or his gear harness- small details that could have dire consequences if a twig should be snapped at the wrong moment.

Byerly was simply passing on the orders he had given her to the Rangers of his platoon who would be joining the reconnaissance probe of Brasilia and Homestead- but her direction served as reminders to Whilite as well.

Whilite hoped that it wasn't evident how _much_ of a reminder Byerly's words were.

This wasn't being _green_ \- Whilite had long since parted ways with practical inexperience. The Control Zone was an effective and mostly unforgiving schoolmaster in the applied lessons of war.

Whilite's mind was returning to the broader strokes of the mission that Captain Nguyen had set- a mission that he had announced he would be leading himself, which had elicited only the obligatory protests from his subordinates.

On the one hand, this was an incursion into enemy territory that had been friendly the day before for the purpose of identifying, gathering, and caching _anything_ that Echo Company could make use of to sustain themselves while issues of resupply and relief were worked out.

It was also a mission to establish Echo Company's standing in the AOR.

Were there other RDF Army survivors?

If so, who were they and what was their condition?

Was Captain Nguyen still just a captain low on the totem pole of officers in the AOR or was he significantly closer to the top?

This mission was as much about getting Echo Company's bearings again as it was about securing supplies.

Whether Nguyen found himself still a subordinate or at the top of the chain of command, there were questions about applying Echo Company in the fluid AOR that needed addressing. _Harass the enemy and disrupt his operations_ \- certainly a valid, generic objective. Rangers, after all, were not idle creatures by nature.

It was the _how_ of doing this in a measurable way that was yet to be seen and that gave Whilite pause.

First things first though.

As an instructor at Ranger school had put it many times- drilling it into the heads of his class- you had to first see where you stood in order to decide where you needed to go.

"El-Tee", Byerly said quietly, putting herself close enough to Whilite to speak at a whisper, "Doc Lancing asked to hitch on again- I told her no, though."

"Not enough work here?", Whilite laughed dryly.

"Just wants to be where she's the most useful, El-Tee- just like everybody else."

There was an abundance of volunteers for everything, Whilite had found- especially those wanting to join the probe mission back into Brasilia. No one wanted to sit by passively and wait to see what the fortunes of war brought.

Whilite had been forced to decline many such requests, but did so knowing that he would still have ample volunteers when they were needed.

"There are wounded here too.", Whilite reminded Byerly as though speaking to Lancing directly.

Byerly nodded, "Yeah, I told her that too. Cochran and Preston seem to be on the mend though- they're both able to see light and shadow now, says Doc."

"That's the best news I've heard all day.", Whilite said.

It was good news and a relief to Whilite. The two privates in question had lost their sight to the particle beam strike that had severed contact with Homestead, and had done God-only-knew what else.

While the two men had not ever been in any danger of being abandoned- Rangers _never_ left a comrade behind- the prospects of having two sightless men to care for had promised to add additional _challenges_ to an already difficult situation.

"Give her a firm and final no from me, Staff Sergeant.", Whilite instructed, stopping just short of making it an order, "Captain Nguyen already picked Craig from First Platoon to tie on as our medic. Besides- tell her that if this goes to pot, we might be in need of her services when we come tumbling back."

Byerly agreed with a simple bob of her head, choosing not to speak what she and Whilite were both thinking and what Lancing, given her significant training in the medic's MOS _had_ to know as well.

Other than the possibility of wounds sustained by the members of the probe unit- there was not likely to be many in Brasilia who could benefit from a medic's ability to aide. Captain Nguyen had realistically set expectations for the probe- the likelihood of finding many survivors was low. The attempt still had to be made to find them.

Sadly, this mission was mostly about self-preservation.

Like survivors of a sunken ship in a lifeboat, Echo Company needed to inventory what was available to them to sustain themselves. That as much as anything would dictate to what level they could operate and for how long.

And they might not be the only ones looking.

The malcontents who had fled Brasilia the day before were on the move, returning now- and they had several hours head start. There was some question as to what exactly they intended to do with the now uncontested city, but it was reasonable to assume if not certain that some bright thinker in their ranks would have the thought of seizing whatever supplies could be salvaged from Homestead Base.

–Or maybe they wouldn't.

Byerly had astutely observed that the order of business for the malcontents might simply be to ensure that nothing remained at Homestead that could be used against them or the invading Zentraedi force. After all, the malcontents were no longer relegated to scavenging for sustenance- they had the whole Zentraedi war machine supporting them now.

This led to another disturbing observation Byerly had made-. The malcontents had not _abandoned_ Brasilia, but rather had _displaced_ before the attack.

Down to the warrior, they had _known._

Still, whether the malcontents might go to Homestead to scavenge, or to mop-up it was crucial that the patchwork recon force from all platoons of Echo Company get there first and remain undetected. It would not take much of a skirmish to use up what little ammunition they carried, which also represented the bulk of what remained to Echo Company as a whole. They had just not set off into the field loaded to conduct prolonged battle without the possibility of resupply or extraction.

What a difference a single day made.

Whilite checked his watch and as he closed the nylon flap that prevented unwanted glint off the face, he said to Byerly, "It's about that time. Let's get our squad moving and get over to the CP. You know how I hate to be late to a shin-dig."

"Roger that, El-Tee.", Byerly said, shifting the weight on her rifle's strap on her shoulder.

The sun was still high, not far past its zenith, but a long, forced march still lay ahead that would put the Rangers at the outskirts of Brasilia after dark had fallen. Then the real work would begin and a clearer assessment of what at best was a bad situation could be made.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Gnerl Fighter Pods in easily a wing's strength broke away from a flight of six Re-Entry Transports and roared away to the east adding altitude as they went.

The transports lumbered in from the north, moving as they did in a slow, labored fashion over the captured micronian airfield to settle in the spaces that only minutes before had been occupied by six predecessors of the same type.

Once they had dropped their ramps and achieved the rapid deployment of the ground forces they carried, they too would depart to make room for the succeeding flight.

And then the process would repeat again-.

This exact repetitive exercise had been ongoing at the same tempo since before dawn, it showed no signs of dwindling, and gave every indication that it would continue until well after nightfall which was still hours away.

Action Commander Kevtok did not share the interest in this activity as was still clearly visible in his rank-counterpart, Action Commander Suvhlo whose barely contained grin marked him as a warrior at the _initiation_ of an assignment, and not as Kevtok was- at its end.

The relief, borderline _elation_ , of being surrounded again by Zentraedi in viable and combat-ready units and at not having to estimate the threat of aircraft as they passed over had not lasted as long as Kevtok had thought it might. Watching the steady deployment of mecha from the captured landing zone into the dense jungle that swallowed the endless stream of mecha and infantry voraciously had quickly left Kevtok feeling inert and restless.

The fact had not escaped the Serhot-Ran officer that his contribution to this moment was colossal- that his skill at improvisation and organization had enabled scenes similar to the one now boring him to take place all across vital points over two continents. He understood the magnitude of the achievement in facilitating the establishment of multiple- _scores_ if not _hundreds_ \- of tactically advantageous footholds to be taken with only minimal struggle.

But the fact remained that those efforts were now relegated to the past, and Kevtok was already wanting the assignment of a new mission.

A popular Serhot-Ran axiom warned, Kevtok remembered: _Stowed armor rusts._

With the approach of one of Suvhlo's lieutenants, his expression very intent, Kevtok felt a moment's hope that he carried news that would mean a call to action. Even before the sub-commander spoke though, it was clear that his business was not that dire and the ember that Kevtok had felt went dark and cold in the noticeably rising heat of the tropical day.

"Lord", the sub-commander said, dutifully making a clenched fist salute to his breast as he addressed his superior, "-There is an urgent communication from the flagship-."

Suvhlo nearly stumbled standing in place, " _Supreme General Krymina's vessel?.._ I will take the message in my Glaug-."

The sub-commander looked pensive as he quickly corrected, "Lord, my apologies- the communication link is not for you- it is for Action Commander Kevtok."

Suvhlo's expression was still soured as he looked to the Serhot-Ran officer, the inescapable bitterness of nearly grasping the pinnacle of honors while already in the midst of a monumental personal moment, only to have it snatched away in the same instant.

Kevtok took some pleasure in that, and at seeing that repulsive smirk Suvhlo had worn a moment earlier vanish from his face.

In honesty to his self though, Kevtok would have gladly traded both the com-link and what he was fairly certain would follow with Suvhlo to have command of the force that was continuing to deploy into the dense rain forest.

"I will take it in my combat suit.", Kevtok said much as a warrior might acknowledge a rebuke for a disciplinary infraction.

Some acts in operations had a direct and measurable outcome- an effect on the course of things.

Some acts' effects were less tangible, but at the same time no less real.

Lieutenant Moyrt, speaking for his part, preferred the _direct_ route- a specific action with a specific, quantifiable outcome.

And while he had learned through experience to never speak for Lieutenant Hyra, he knew that she too preferred this means of achieving an end.

This world though- and perhaps only because they had remained so long- was a deviously subtle but effective instructor in the intricacies of war to pupils, such as Serhot-Ran who might otherwise have considered themselves masters.

It seemed that on this world, the immediately intangible results of an action carried with them a more powerful effect when measuring over a longer span of time.

The average norghil warrior- how many of his or her own kind had one seen fall in battle in their time out of the tube?

But the death of just _one_ had been enough to incite a unified norghil uprising against the alien bonds that had held them.

Action Commander Kevtok had seen that potential and calculated the effect of the death of that norghil leader.

He had placed himself masterfully to direct the uprising that followed as well- but there was something more to the success of the long-odds strategy than even Kevtok could claim credit for.

It was something that had to be credited, absurd as it was, to the norghil themselves.

The uprising and its contributions to the invasion had been the sudden revitalization of the Warrior identity in the norghil.

It had been a _revolt_

As Te'Dak Tohl, it had been contrary, paradoxical to Moyrt's existence to fuel such insurrection in the expendable caste- because insurrection, as history had shown clearly in Supreme General Krymina's actions, had a way of taking a path of its own.

If the norghil could revolt against the micronian inhabitants of this world, they could- they _would_ \- eventually turn such a spirit of insubordination on those who they now saw as _liberators_.

But it could be counted upon that it would take the lesser caste some time to realize this for themselves.

Yes, this world was an instructor- even to the Te'Dak Tohl.

What Moyrt had learned was that the role of the Te'Dak Tohl was more than a manifestation of discipline for the norghil ranks. The Te'Dak Tohl were there to offset a genuine threat..

The norghil were a vital tool of convenience for now, but as they were proving their usefulness they were also demonstrating the threat inherent that they were.

The Te'Dak Tohl had uncaged a beast that for now was an ally, but was certain to not answer to their command forever.

"You're drifting-."

"What?"

Moyrt blinked, and realized instantly that Lieutenant Hyra had been dead-center on target. He _had_ been drifting- but how could he not?

The mission had been executed down to the last implication of the lowest priority objective. And not just the mission that Action Commander Kevtok had devised for the previous night.

 _The mission_ had been successfully achieved. –The mission defined by Supreme General Krymina seasons ago now. Not the _same_ mission that had been outlined, briefed, and studied aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory to the point of detailed memorization, but the mission that had been modified and improvised since the surviving Serhot-Ran of the downed transport that had been built as base of operations for a surveillance and reconnaissance operation had discovered the quality of this world that made it desirable beyond being the location from which Zor's Battle Fortress would be retrieved.

After the preparation, the focus, the frustration, and the imaginative energy required to adapt and execute the mission- how could he not drift, if only for a moment.

"Me too.", Hyra admitted, knowing that they were out of earshot of the details of micronized norghil who were carting the bodies of slain micronians to the edge of a fresh blast crater to dump them in for disposal. The heat had not slackened overnight, and was rising again with the movement of the local star across the sky. The corpses were already starting to rot and their stench was saturating and fouling the stagnant air.

The norghil had taken it upon themselves to lay the bodies of their comrades in a separate crater without direction or seeking permission from either Moyrt or Hyra. Technically, this could have been seen as an infraction of conduct, but it was one that could be allowed to go without reprimand- a reward of sorts.

The norghil had after all performed with distinction in battle.

Their dead did not deserve the dishonor of having their ashes mixed with those of the micronians.

"When I get back, I am going to put this uniform into the first disposal tube I come across and then I'm going to go through the nearest cleansing station ten times. –And I'll probably still reek of this wretched jungle."

"And then what?", Moyrt asked, only understanding the words truly himself as they escaped his lips.

"Maybe a meal that won't cause intestinal distress?..", Hyra speculated, "Though, I do have to admit honestly between you and I, I _will_ miss some of the fruits of the plants and trees here and some of the micronian food packets."

"Not what I meant.", Moyrt said, realizing that he too would find it hard to part with some of the simple and unexpected pleasures that had come with their time marooned on this world, "I mean, what do we do then? Training and exercises while the improved norghil grind the micronian population into ruin? In five days' time, there won't be a mission worthy of Serhot-Ran assignment left on this mud ball."

"Rumor has it that Breetai ran from the fight-.", Hyra suggested, "Maybe-."

"You've already dipped into the rumor stream?"

With a note of pride, Hyra replied, "I'm talented that way. _There's_ your mission worthy of Serhot-Ran- and Krymina _will_ go out after him… -And Zor's vessel of course."

Moyrt was clearly taking some solace in Hyra's words as he conceded, "She would have to, wouldn't she? Otherwise all of _this_ would be for nothing."

"Nothing beyond principle.", Hyra agreed, "Don't exhaust yourself with worry, Moyrt- I'm sure there will be more assignments for the Serhot-Ran."

"-Maybe sooner than we think. This does not look good-.", Moyrt said.

Hyra did not initially understand Moyrt's comment but in following the direction of his gaze, found Action Commander Kevtok approaching them on foot. Any question or instruction he might have had for them could have as easily been conveyed over the convenience of a coms-channel, but he'd chosen to walk through the heat which had now become stifling.

Furthermore, his expression was dark- far darker than one that should have been worn by a commander whose unorthodox operational plan, using at _best_ , questionable resources had just shown itself to be an overwhelming success should have been displaying.

This did _not_ look good.

Moyrt and Hyra stiffened to attention, thumping their chests with a salute that was both obligatory and sincerely felt as the senior officer neared them.

" _Lord-_."

Unceremoniously, Kevtok said in a somber tone, "We've been recalled to _Artoc_ for debriefing and to meet with Supreme General Krymina. The transport's coordinates have been sent already, and a shuttle from the ship that will ferry us will rally with us there. We will retrieve all reconnaissance and observation materiel that we've accumulated and then secure and sanitize the site before exfiltrating the area."

"Be ready to move out in five minutes."

"Yes, Lord.", both lieutenants said as one as a singular response of affirmation.

Kevtok turned to return to his Nacht Rau suit that he would use to make the short return trip to the non-flight-worthy Re-Entry Transport that despite the damage it had received had still served admirably as a base of operations.

Hyra, speaking out of turn with the familiarity that was often a by-product of time spent in the field where the strata of rank tended to dissolve, asked after Kevtok-.

"Lord- have we done something wrong?"

"No.", Kevtok replied, neither slowing his return pace to his combat suit nor even turning his head to speak back to his subordinates.

His voice was even darker, "No, we've done well."

 **UESS** _**Gordon P. Samuels**_

"Attention all hands, attention all hands-.", said the voice over the ship's PA system, a hint of the woman's Dutch accent still coming through despite the low-fidelity qualities of the speakers, "Pressurization testing of sections 1-25-Port through 1-29-Port have been completed. Detailed fitters and electrical teams report to the Section Chief for work assignment. That is all."

Commander Lauren Devereaux peered ahead through the port forward viewport of the captain's bridge to the charred stretch of outer hull between frames 25 and 29 where a breech in the pressure hull had just been reported as repaired.

Somewhere below decks there were teams of ship fitters and electrician's mates navigating the corridors and companionways, moving toward the interior spaces of these sections. Several hours could be expected to be required to assess the damage done to ducts, wiring, fixtures, and equipment in the re-pressurized sections before work to make them functional began. With hard work and a little luck though, these spaces could be expected to be back in use within ten to fifteen hours.

Even if the _Gordon P. Samuels_ was going nowhere, keeping the crew engaged fully kept their minds on readying the ship for when she would be sent again into harm's way, and prevented their minds from wandering to and lingering with thoughts of home and what was happening there.

-And the _Gordon P. Samuels_ was going _nowhere_ apparently.

For that matter, neither were the visible units and elements of The Fleet.

Ahead, on all points off the _Samuels'_ bow, and out beyond the jetty slip to which she was moored stood the ships of the Fleet, representing most of the classes and configurations.

Idle.

Aboard every one of the vessels, Commander Devereaux knew there was a counterpart feeling the precise sense of confinement she was feeling, and asking the exact same questions that she asked herself.

When were mission orders coming?

Of all the vessels in view and of all their commanding officers, Devereaux felt a greater sympathy for _SDF-3_ , and her Flag- Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter.

The great ship, the most consciously dedicated merging of Terran design and Robotechnology had skulked in to spacedock some four hours before after the briefest set of trial runs and exercises in the short history of the Robotech Expeditionary Force.

Devereaux of course had been attending to the sewing-up of her own command's wounds, and was understandably preoccupied- but had heard that the flagship had fired her main battery for the first time. Initially _SDF-3_ had fired each of her two Reflex cannons independently, before stress-testing the supporting systems by firing both in salvo.

There were other ships of the Fleet that had comparable or greater size and armament- any of the refitted Zentraedi vessels that made up the bulk of the REF units being prime examples- but to know that _SDF-3_ was testing herself- _limbering up_ for the fight, as it were- was an event of unspoken significance.

More even than the salvage of _SDF-1_ from a dead hulk less than a decade before, it was humankind's tossing of its hat into the galactic ring.

Commander Devereaux suspected she knew the frustration that Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter was feeling now. She had met her on several occasions- a younger woman by several years- but with a tempered drive and intensity that Devereaux knew all too well.

Hayes-Hunter had probably been placated temporarily by the validation of her ship's systems and abilities, but it was a relief that was not unlike a single cigarette after a long, commercial flight subjected to "non-smoking" policy-.

When the craving for something more returned, it returned with a vengeance at having been patronized.

The "attention" tone sounded over the ship's PA system followed by the voice of a speaker that was different from that of a minute or so before.

"Captain, please contact the radio shack immediately-. Captain, please contact the radio shack immediately…"

Devereaux was within arm's length of the watch officer's chair at the forward end of the compartment, port side. As one of a dozen "default" call options, the commander found easily and selected the ship's communication center, buzzing the duty officer.

"Radio shack-."

"CO here.", Devereaux said, "What's the deal?"

"Com for you, Skipper-.", the ensign on watch whose voice Devereaux recognized said, professionally- yet somewhat puzzled, "Priority channel and encoded, squadron commander sending. –I didn't know they sent coded , priority messages in spacedock, Captain-."

Devereaux was silent for a moment; uncertain as to what she would find when she took the communication. She was eager to learn though.

"It's a new one on me. Squawk for the XO and have him meet me the CO's briefing room."

"Aye, Captain."

Lieutenant Commander Mitch Petersen was entering the modest-sized briefing room just under two minutes after he had been paged over the ship's PA. This was an impressive feat as he had been down four decks and forward eighteen frames of the conning tower at the time he had received the call.

Apparently he was either eager to discover what was worthy of communicating coded in dock, or the inspection of repair work was not holding with him an interest equal to the work's importance.

"-Any idea what this is about?", Petersen asked as the door slid shut behind him sealing the two senior officers and the conversation that they were about to have off from the rest of the ship.

"Not a clue.", Devereaux said, toggling on the multifunctional holographic viewscreen which appeared at the center of the briefing table, "-But knowing the way things work in Fleet, it's probably an advisory Intelligence that there's a possibility of heightened hostile Zentraedi activity."

"Their timing _is_ improving.", Petersen pointed out.

The crest of the 91st Frigate Squadron flashed on the screen and was replaced by an orange field with the bolded words, "TOP SECRET", at the center.

This lasted for just a moment before it was replaced by an image of the squadron commander, Captain Fenton. A slender, balding man whose last traces of hair kept wreath-like at temple level was not known for mincing words and was not any less blunt on this occasion.

"Laure, Pete- how's the _Samuels_?"

Knowing Fenton to be one who respected brevity, Devereaux replied, "On the mend, sir. Sam won't win any beauty contests in the short run, but she'll rate fives across the board inside of ten hours."

"No bull?", Fenton asked.

"Like a dairy barn at milking time.", Devereaux affirmed.

Fenton swept his fingers over his angular jaw-line, a contemplative habit that both Devereaux and Petersen were familiar with. It often preceded revelation of something of importance or at least carefully guarded. As his fingers made two runs along the length of his jawbone, this promised to be both.

"I don't have details to give you yet, but I've just been briefed on a straw man for an operation that will be taking shape in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Naval Operations is looking at staging a series of lightening, hit-and-run attacks on the Zentraedi elements occupying the Sol system."

"It carries the promise of intense action beyond the reach of support or aide. I was told to select three units from the squadron best qualified for such an assignment and put them up for nomination. Your name was at the top of my list, Lauren. Are you game?"

Devereaux replied without hesitation, "Naturally, sir. The _Samuels_ will be ready."

"Ready in ten hours.", Fenton stipulated, "I'll be honest, Lauren- your _tenacity_ is why you're getting this call- but Fleet's going to look at _Samuels'_ condition as a liability. There are a lot of qualified skippers with ships that don't have a scratch on them."

Devereaux nodded her understanding but felt obliged to respond, "I like a pretty ship as much as the next CO, sir- but she's a _fighting_ ship, and I can't see any excuse for not fighting her."

The slightest of grins appeared on Fenton's face, "And that's why you're on top of my list. Keep that attitude and have your ship on the top peg in ten hours, and I'll do my best to get you into the party."

"Much obliged, sir.", Devereaux said with genuine gratitude.

"Thank me after the magic has happened.", Fenton said, and then added, "And from this moment until you hear otherwise from me, your ship is on strict lockdown. No crew going aboard Walhalla, no personal communications between crew aboard your vessel and personnel aboard the station."

Petersen's face showed his shock, "Are we concerned about spies, sir?"

"Fenton out.", the squadron commander said before the image flickered to the classification screen and then the blue screen indicating a closed channel.

"This is promising.", Devereaux said as she shut down the viewscreen.

"I'm leaning more toward _ominous_ , but our brains work differently and that's why we're a good team.", Petersen countered, "The paranoia about locking the ship down by quarantine protocols is an especially nice touch. We can't have the concept of an operation walking off the ship- even though you and I are the only ones who know about it right now."

"And we're going to keep it that way for right now, Pete.", Devereaux said in the way that let Petersen know he had received an order even though it had not been phrased as such from her, "At the risk of hubris, you know we're good in a fight. We're skilled, disciplined, and click when the pressure is on- we can contribute to this-. Whatever _this_ is."

Petersen took the weight off of the bulkhead against which he'd been leaning, "I guess I'd better start putting the DCTs under the lash. We've got a deadline to meet now. I _really_ wish you hadn't said ten hours."

Devereaux sighed, "I'm starting to wish I'd said _eight._ Oh well, unreasonable expectations are what COs are there for."

"And making it happen are what XOs are there for.", Petersen said, knowing his responsibilities in the arrangement, "- I was getting to popular with the crew anyway."

"You help them to shine, Pete- they love you for it deep down."

"We'll go with that answer."

 **The Panama Canal Joint Military Zone**

Eyes instinctively turned skyward at the sound of artillery shells splitting the air high overhead, but for no practical reason. By the time that the sound had reached the swelling mass of personnel along the southern embankment of the Miraflores Locks, the salvo of 155mm shells had passed and at such great velocity and altitude that had an observer been looking overhead at exactly the right moment- they still would not have seen the relatively small shells in transit against the backdrop of the hazy, mid-morning sky.

Just prior to dawn, and before the batteries of 155s had begun engaging from fire bases south of The Panama Canal, those who had looked skyward had been treated to numerous salvos of rockets fired from the Multiple Launch Guided Rocket System batteries also south of the canal. With far greater reach than the 155mm artillery pieces, and five times the range of even the savage 16-inch rifles of the M.A.C. II "Monsters" that had joined the outgoing fusillade shortly after dawn- the MLGRS batteries had hurled unspeakable violence at a distant enemy with no more evidence of this activity to the observers below than the terribly dazzling sight of rocket burn-trails passing far above.

The enemy had been so far to the north from the southwestern lock of the canal that there had been no indication of the rockets even reaching the target area. Only faith in a well developed and tested weapon system gave the observers along the canal confidence that the rockets would rain their sub-munitions on the enemy with the intended and withering effect for which they had been designed.

The first real "sounds" of battle had come just after sunrise as the deep thunder of distant M.A.C. II long rifles rolled over the hills, followed seemingly as a response almost a minute after the gun reports by the reciprocal boom falling shot.

It had been after the passage of the first salvos of 16-inch projectiles that the first flights of ground attack aircraft- mostly the attack variants of the Adventurer II- had been seen moving hastily north, accompanied by Southern Cross fighters flying escort and protection duty.

Through the morning, repeated waves of attack aircraft had flown north- assumed by Nguyen to be the _same_ aircraft after quick turn-around for fuel at their bases to the south. Each time though, almost unperceivable on the second overflight of the morning but irrefutable by the last- there had been _fewer_ Adventurer IIs.

And later when ASC squadrons of Specters and their newest additions to the winged inventory, the Logans, had joined in running the circuit north- they too began to show signs of diminishing with each sortie.

There was no question as to the cause.

Aerial duels- or perhaps more appropriately, _brawls_ \- had ranged across the sky to the north and the south of the canal all morning. Too distant to make out the details, but leaving perfect visual records even after the melees had ended in the embodiment of well-formed, white contrails that twisted and wove through one another's paths like fraying white yarn unwound from its ball into unkempt heaps.

It was the same lingering evidence of dramatic flight that under other circumstances could have followed the exhilarated cheers of a crowd at an air show. Only now, along with the visual record of piloting skill, there were the intermingled signs of violence.

Oily smudges could also be seen in the tangle of vapor trails where an anonymous combatant had lost their particular fight. Often these blemishes on the otherwise pale blue sky had a twisting tendril of smoke spiraling down toward the horizon- sometimes there were many marking the fall of multiple pieces from a single, catastrophic end.

And while from the vantage point of the Miraflors Locks, it was impossible to tally the number of "friendly" vanquished versus the number of bandits- the contrails headed away in the direction from which the enemy could be expected to be found in numbers was always greater at the end of these air battles.

The ground beneath Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen's feet rippled in the way that he had come to know this morning and had been expecting. The interval between the passage of the shells overhead and the resulting tremors underfoot was shorter.

The distinct tremble pulsing through the earth rattled its way through the boot soles, entered the body through the bones in the feet, and migrated like palsy tremors through the ankles and knees with a dual destination and focal point of the lower spine and bladder.

Some of the terminal sensations may have been psychological though.

"That's _damn_ close.", Lieutenant Colonel Morales said, stepping briefly out of the shade provided by one of his anti-aircraft unit's older, but still operationally formidable Mk-X "Raidar-X" Destroid.

Morales' unit, a mobile, composite anti-aircraft unit suited ideally for countering the non-existent Zentraedi air threat of twenty-four hours before had arrived at Miraflores Lock- South over two hours before and had set up shop. The topography and layout of the lock complex had quickly been surveyed by Morales and his officers, and the medium-to-short range anti-aircraft assets had been quickly emplaced.

The fact that Morales' self-propelled SAM launchers had expended their allotment of missiles before they had been ordered to displace from their position sixty kilometers to the south was not spoken of. The establishment of positions at the Miraflores Lock was still of some benefit as from a distance, enemy fighters would not know that the launch tubes atop the light-armored tracked chassis were empty and might therefore keep a wary distance- for a time.

Also, it gave the bulk of Morales' "duck hunters" something to do while others tasked with going to nearby posts in search of suitable munitions pursued their futile task.

Normally, a simple query in one of the logistician's applications supported by InfoLink would have provided Morales with the answer as to where he could find missiles for his launchers.

This was not a "normal" time though, and InfoLink was no longer fulfilling its promise of concise, accurate, and timely information at the War-Fighter's fingertips.

Lt Nguyen had experienced the gut-wrenching "disconnection" from InfoLink at about the same time as he had seen the first passing salvo of MLGRS rockets overhead.

After it had been confirmed that the wailing, "general alarm" sirens all along the Miraflores Lock Complex were _not_ an exercise, and _not_ sounding in error.

After the mad dash to the armory to draw body armor and a weapon.

-And _after_ Nguyen had accounted for his subordinates and subsequently run out of things he immediately could think of to prepare- he had used his PICS interface to get a larger view of what was happening in the area.

He had quickly come to wish that he had not.

Through brief lapses in Infolink, when he later learned the supporting satellite constellation was faltering under attack, Nguyen had gotten glimpses of the developing situation in the region of The Panama Canal JMZ.

Indications of a large Zentraedi landing force making planetfall were immediately evident, distributed across half a dozen LZs roughly eighty kilometers south of the canal.

A smaller force was simultaneously putting boots and mecha on the ground a comparable distance to the north of the JMZ.

It did not take Tzung Tzu to infer their common objective as the southern group began to show indications of moving north, while the northern Zentraedi force began to press south.

Nguyen whose academic and MOS training had been that of an engineer and not a combatant like his father who commanded a Ranger company was able to see the reality of the moment and its implications in seconds.

The Panama Canal JMZ was being placed in the jaws of a massive, Zentraedi vice- and those jaws were slowly beginning to close.

The JMZ was far from defenseless, of course- The Panama Canal having been recognized as a "natural barrier" from almost the moment that millions of hostile aliens had become marooned on the continent to the south of it. Layered defenses of military bases, air fields, and fixed fire bases had been established in depth below the canal- but these all anticipated a possible surge from the _south_.

And with the Zentraedi pacification and domestication programs that had followed The Robotech War which had either destroyed or confiscated the vast bulk of alien war material- these defenses had not taken into account the possibility of substantial hostile air and mechanized forces moving against them

The thought of any substantial threat moving against The Panama Canal JMZ from the _north_ was even more remote.

The sky at the horizon over the hill and treetops- not at all points, but predominantly- was showing a sootier, darker hue of the tropical blue of sky now.

In lulls of the noise of people and machines coming and going, Nguyen was also sure he could hear the distance-softened tenor of explosions and did his best to convince himself that it was his imagination.

The enemy _was_ drawing nearer from both the northern and southern approaches.

Perhaps this was why InfoLink was dark in the JMZ. Not because of the failure of the satellite constellation supporting it- no, InfoLink had may levels of redundancy built into its "backbone". AWACS, JSTARS, and any number of EC4 bird variants could assume the burden of supporting InfoLink at a regional and even an AOR level. The fact that the attack aircraft headed north were flying at a low level- indicating external vectoring- versus flying higher in a "search and destroy" mode suggested that InfoLink _was_ functioning at some level.

Just not for eyes whose "need to know" did not pass muster of whoever was now in command.

 _They_ didn't want all to be able to see and assess for themselves what was happening-. _They_ didn't want the forces "holding" the JMZ to see and realize that they were cut off from both the north and south, and that as the RDF and ASC lines collapsed toward the center, the narrowing of land between Atlantic and Pacific that had been envisioned as a perfect "choke point" by planners in the event that a malcontent surge from the south would have to be repulsed was now forming a "kill box"- and _not_ for the aliens.

Perhaps _they_ were only restricting InfoLink access in the JMZ to those whom they knew could not, or would not be saved.

Nguyen tried to shrug off the sneaking suspicion that only festered in the absence of other information and of _orders_. Captain Stanton had made a point of appearing every thirty minutes or so to "check in", but had not issued new direction since roughly 0900 when he had ordered the hasty off-loading of construction equipment from the _Tortuga Gorda_ \- the contractor barge still moored to the southeastern pier just outside of the Miraflores Lock.

Great effort and skill had been required to load the barge with the "essential" equipment- a task that had taken the 433rd Engineers a touch over three hours, pre-dawn.

Off-loading had taken less than half that time, and would have required even less had mobile field hospital units not been trying to establish themselves aboard the barge even as it was being offloaded of construction equipment.

The flow of personnel, military, civilian contractors, and a large number of civilians unaffiliated in any way with the JMZ had begun at roughly the same time. A trickle at first, then a stream, and now a torrent that continued despite the fact that approaches to the canal had been closed off and were guarded now by heavily armed MP units.

There was not a panic- not yet. There was that penetrating, indefinable tension though that always could be felt in situations just before they plunged into chaos.

A vehicle horn sounded, warning those standing idly in the way of the land rover to move or suffer the consequences of inertia. It was a shrill, squeaky note belted out by the horn- incompatible it seemed to Nguyen with the robust construction and appearance of the six-wheeled vehicle it belonged to.

The rover seemed to turn directly toward the second lieutenant as it passed through a parted crowd of engineers from several units, but stopped several meters shy. As a captain threw himself out of the passenger seat into a jog, Nguyen realized that the occupants had been seeking out the AA unit commander, Morales.

"No dice, Colonel!", the captain reported with almost reproachable informality, "Not a missile to be had in thirty kliks, more or less- but something _big_ is going down to the south of us."

Clearly frustrated by his subordinate's failure to procure the implements that would have made his unit relevant in the fight, Morales replied curtly, "I don't need you to tell me that something is going on to our south, Foster-."

"No, sir- begging your pardon-.", the captain interjected, "Light armor is moving east on the Autopista del Sur, sir- _our_ light armor. MBPs and supporting mobile gun units, at least two regiments in strength and they're movin' like the devil's on their asses."

Nguyen saw- _felt_ \- the shift in the lieutenant colonel's mood as distinctly as one might feel the sweep of chilled air when entering a climate controlled room on a sweltering summer day.

Nguyen also knew why.

The Autopista del Sur had been a Corps of Engineers project also, built to allow a volume of vehicles and equipment to move parallel to the canal. It branched north near the meeting of the canal and the Atlantic at the Puente de las Americas where a bridge connected the southern bank to the northern.

It was entirely possible that these regiments of the RDF-modified Regults, the Military Battle Pods, and their supporting mobile gun units were rushing to the bridge to cross north in order to augment the more rapidly faltering northern defense.

There were many points along the canal though, just southeast of the Miraflores Lock even, where the MBPs could have easily waded to the northern shore to continue on to the fight without investing the time in needlessly seeking a bridge crossing.

The other possibility, Nguyen knew, was that the armored regiments were not headed for the bridge at all- but rather for the southern ports of the Puente de las Americas where LSTs could rapidly recover mecha of their size either from the wharves or even from the beaches.

LTC Morales had clearly understood both possibilities himself, and based on his sudden palor and general reaction had decided which he felt to be the more likely.

"-Where's Major Fulton?"

"Battery Six, sir- he was doing the rounds- inspecting.", the captain replied.

"Take your ride over to find him and tell him I want the word spread that we're raising dust in thirty."

"Yes sir-.", the captain said, puzzled somewhat by the mode of the communication, "Couldn't we just call him on the tac-band? He's got ears on, I'm sure."

Morales shook his head, "No-. I don't want any more of a tail than what's absolutely necessary. If some file clerk in the post HQ or a machinist in the motor pool gets wind that we're pulling up stakes, he'll tell four of his _compadres_ , and they tell four of theirs, and _then_ it gets out into the civilian population-. And before you can say Moses, we're leading an exodus."

The captain seemed hesitant for multiple reasons, Nguyen imagined, "Begging your pardon though, Colonel- isn't this abandoning our post without proper relief?"

Morales' expression soured indignantly at the question, "We were ordered to _relocate_ to the Miraflores Lock, Captain. My orders said nothing about remaining here. If the war effort is best served by my death, _they can shoot me later_. I won't see my regiment slaughtered because we were left in place at a position that command saw fit to give up to the enemy while units that _should_ be holding the line withdraw by sea-. You may feel free to stay if you like though, Captain."

" _No, sir_ \- I'll find the Major-."

Nguyen watched as the captain returned to his rover with greater haste than he had left it. A few words that could not be heard from the distance that separated Nguyen from the rover widened the driver's eyes and had him putting the vehicle into gear and departing for some other area of the lock complex with perceivable haste.

 _Now_ it was starting- the sequence of events by which things began to fall apart.

The AA unit commander, Morales turned suddenly- as though reversing himself might remove from sight the growing multitudes he had just elected to abandon for the chance of saving his unit.

Nguyen had forgotten with all that he had just heard how close he had been to the lieutenant colonel, and was reminded now only as Morales nearly stepped through him as he retreated from his decision. Nguyen could not tell whether it was sweat, of which all in the intense Panamanian sun were perspiring a profusion- or if possibly he was seeing signs of tears.

In either case, Morales' eyes fixed on Nguyen and without a word between them, he understood immediately what the junior officer had overheard.

The senior made no attempt to excuse himself, saying only, "If you have a means of mobility, you had better exercise it _now_ Lieutenant-. Order will fail here soon, and then it will be too late to leave. Unless you intend to stay, go _now._ "

With that, the lieutenant colonel named Morales pushed past Nguyen and vanished into the mix of milling uniforms calling for someone named Corning.

"Sergeant Gabe-!", Nguyen called, looking around for his senior NCO among the engineers who had collected- waiting for something for them to do.

Gabe, a powerfully built, but stubby man with a handy and useful air about him appeared as Nguyen was preparing to call a second time.

"Sir?", Gabe said motioning to the sun standing high in its path overhead, "-Sorry, I was trying to stay in the shade until we got word to- _whatever_."

Nguyen nodded his understanding, "Well, we just got it, Sergeant- _sort of_. I want you to take as many of our people as you need and go down to the rovers and 8/4s where we left them. Dump all the gear and make sure the fuel is topped off. Make it happen _quickly_ , Sergeant. –And if anyone asks, you're preparing a detail to go south to help with the transport of wounded. Understood?"

Gabe, caught off guard, managed only, "Are we?"

"No. And where's Captain Stanton?..."

 **5 Km North of Brasilia**

A bass, almost constant murmur like the sound of distant thunder washed in a constant flow over the open fields and former micronian dwelling areas as Re-Entry Transports deployed the units they were ferrying from orbiting landing ships and then departed.

The distinct shapes of Regults in all their forms, Nacht-Rau combat suits, the periodic Glaug Officer's Pod, and an increasing number of infantry in full combat gear would form up into units and move out. Most moved off into one cardinal direction or another and would quickly disappear into the rolling landscape despite their size which seemed exaggerated in comparison to the native micronian structures. Other traveled a shorter distance south toward Brasilia where they would join the garrison being assembled there.

The feet of thousands of infantry and mecha alike formed the prevailing thunder- a very real thunder of an origin that the micronians were fated to come to know and fear.

Sub-Lieutenant First Grade Athal had a different reaction to the sight of Zentraedi forces in movement- an emotional response he had not had since he had first breathed the smothering, sultry and rank air of this world.

He felt _hope_.

This was not the façade of hope that he had been obligated to wear and project for the benefit of the Warriors under his charge even as the micronians had rounded them up, starving, and robbed them of their natural size. It was not the blend of optimism and endurance that had promised the uncertain hope of "one day", when they would be warriors again as Fate had intended.

This was _real hope._

Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but sometime within the foreseeable future- Athal and his Warriors would return to a ship of their saviors' fleet and would be restored to their true form. Familiar food, safe water, air that did not swarm with insects- and most importantly _order_ would soon return.

Beyond those yearnings whose satisfaction he knew would be transitory, Athal desired to know the feel again of a _proper_ weapon in his hands- not the crude approximations that the micronians seemed to settle for. He wanted to feel the controls of a Regult again, and the bounce of its step as it carried him into battle.

More than this though, he wanted to see the overconfidence and self-righteousness of the micronians dissolve as they cowered before the advance of _thousands_ of similarly armed Zentraedi Warriors in swift-moving, assault formation.

Soon- but not today.

Today Athal and the four Warriors he had been charged with would patrol a specific area on the outskirts of Brasilia to monitor for the movement of micronians. Of specific concern were the micronian warriors whose positions had been battered indirectly by the orbital gunfire of the Fleet. While most of their garrisons were known by the report of probing operations to be either dead or dying from their minimal resistance to radiation, there was always the chance- even the probability- that _some_ had survived and would attempt escape.

And while a handful of trained micronian combatants were hardly a source of concern when an entire Zentraedi action army would be landed by nightfall- a handful retreating in shambles was more easily dispatched than if they were allowed to rejoin their forces and rearm.

It was not as _satisfying_ a form of victory as one won over an opponent who was suited for the fight, but Athal was willing to work his way gradually back to that sense of fulfillment.

-Assuming of course that he found himself in a combat unit in time to engage the micronians on equal footing.

So far, and for the better part of the day, there had been no contact with living micronians- with living _anything_ for that matter. Athal and his warriors had come across a multitude of dead, indigenous creatures killed by the radiation of the particle beam attack and dead just long enough to begin to give off a rotting odor- but no micronians.

Athal suspected that the bodies- mostly of the scavenger type- would be found curled-up in the shelters that they thought afforded them protection once the population center of Brasilia had been reclaimed. There might even be an effort to collect the corpses for disposal- to offset the chances of allowing disease an opportunity to manifest itself in the ranks of the assembling Zentraedi garrison. This chance was a low order of probability though, and as far as Athal was concerned the micronians could and should be left to rot as an example.

Immediately though, the lack of content meant another few days of tedious sentry duty before a chance at escape.

Athal did not take his assignment lightly, however, and understood what a valuable asset micronian warriors could be to their forces if they were allowed to rejoin. For this reason, he attended to the execution of his mission with a Warrior's dedication, and was dedicated to assuring that the warriors in his squad did so as well.

The land Athal had been assigned to patrol until his relief arrived after nightfall was for the most part open and without significant cover- natural or artificial. As a result, he had determined a fixed observation position – something elevated- would allow he and his squad to be the most effective. He had already selected an abandoned structure just west of the ground that he and his warriors were now traversing as being that observation position.

First though, Athal was familiar enough with this area outside of Brasilia to be aware of an artificial ravine that had been created by the micronians to draw rainwater away from the city. If there were surviving micronian warriors attempting to flee Brasilia from this general area, this feature to the landscape would offer them the best chance of movement without risk of detection.

It was the cover that Athal would have sought had he been in their position and with their intent.

The ravine traveled through the depression between low-rolling hills just ahead and meandered north another hour's walk more or less where it terminated into an engineered collection pond.

Confident that his squad was farther north than a fleeing micronian could have possibly walked since the attack, Athal was comfortable in working south along the edge of the ravine that lay just ahead beyond a flanking stand of high grass to where the constructed gulley vanished underground into concrete pipe that spanned the rest of the distance into the city. The exercise would take another hour to an hour and a half perhaps, and it would be advisable to leave a pair of warriors at the pipe outlet to guard once the sweep was completed- but Athal felt he could be nestled into his observation post by the time that the afternoon shadows began to lengthen.

There was a soft hiss, like the quick, raspy exhale of breath that could have as easily been mistaken for a wisp of wind through dry grass- had Warrior Coscil's back not exploded at the spine between the shoulder blades.

With a noise that was the merging of a grunt and a gurgling wheeze, the warrior went over heavily with no more life in his body than the ground he plunged to face-long, and with a fist-sized entry wound where the fatal round had struck.

The squad was frozen for an interminable split-second as the blue-green spray of blowout blood, flesh pulp, and pulverized bone settled completely from the air.

A second round, this one announcing itself in passing with an equally subdued but shrill whistling struck Warrior Garron in the half turn he had begun to make to see what had happened to Coscil. The round struck him in the back, just beneath the shoulder, and tore a gaping wound that splintered the ribs nearly to where they joined the backbone.

There was no question in Athal's mind that he and his warriors were being hunted from afar by a micronian precision marksman, whose concealed position lay somewhere behind them. He had known dozens, scores of warriors who had fallen to these unseen cowards who refused to do battle face to face.

But also, Athal knew that in each instance the killer had made a clean escape, from retribution seeming to justify cowardice with practicality.

There was the drainage culvert though- half a dozen paces away at most, and even the best marksman could not take down Athal and all of his warriors in the time it would take them to reach it.

This was primarily why Athal had no confidence he would make it to this promise of cover alive.

The high grass running along the culvert parted just broadly enough to allow Athal to see the muzzle of a rifle emerge, and catch a glimpse of the blackened micronian face behind the raised sight panel.

Staff Sergeant Byerly's rifle whispered its single declaration of execution, making less noise than the SCAP round that struck the alien squarely in the center body mass and opened it with the explosive force of its shaped charge tip.

In the span of a second, four malcontents dropped to the ground lifeless and without a single shot fired in return.

"Four Tangos down.", Byerly whispered into her helmet mike as she confirmed that the only movement from the downed Zentraedi was the common, macabre death twitching.

"Harris, what's your SitRep?"

"Confirmed, four down plus two. Area is secure."

Byerly motioned to her Rangers who had melted into the grass at the warning from Sergeant Harris- Echo Company's sniper team spotter- at his warning from a rise 500 meters to the north that a malcontent patrol was approaching. From the moment he had seen them, his shooter, Corporal Fuller had been tracking their movements through the scope of his militarized Remington .350 Magnum rifle.

While the probe unit under Captain Nguyen's command had covered in the culvert, Harris had fed them constant updates on the position and movements of the malcontents- assuming tactical command of the situation and responsibility for the Rangers overall.

While Fuller could have easily neutralized the threat at any point, the preferable course of action had been to allow the Zentraedi to go about their business and hope that contact could be avoided. When the patrol had changed direction and had begun to head for the culvert by which the probe had been moving toward Brasilia- moving directly as chance would have it toward the probe itself- Harris had had little choice but to order the first and second shot.

The action from both the overwatch position and from Byerly's squad's position had been clean and without a single shot fired in return- but the optimal execution of the movement into Brasilia- stealthy with no sesidual evidence of passage- had been lost.

The best that could be hoped for now was to conceal the action and be gone before another patrol found the evidence of the probe's passage.

"Check them-.", Byerly instructed as the last body was dragged into the high grass. Normally, in open country like this Byerly would have worried that vultures ould find the bodies quickly and mark the location with their circling for all to see for kilometers around.

The fact that the probe had passed so many animals dead from radiation poisoning left her hopeful that any of the filthy winged scavengers who normally called the area home were amongst nature's casualty list- or that at least they would have such a buffet to choose from that they would be distracted from this area until the Rangers were long since departed.

" _Clean_.", came the report repeatedly as the bodies were checked for anything with intelligence or tactical value.

Byerly nodded before half-turning in her squatted posture to look down into the culvert and find Captain Nguyen and Lt Whilite staring back up at her.

"Nothing of value, sirs.", Byerly reported, "Just a patrol it looks like-. They just decided to walk the wrong way at the wrong time. Chances are good though that they'll be missed at some point. Figure though that this is still the best path to the city until we get more cover topside."

"Continue the movement then, Sergeant.", Captain Nguyen ordered, "I want to be within the city limits by sunset."

265


	7. Iago

**Chapter Six**

 **Iago**

"There is no strategy, no scenario by which we can defeat the Te'Dak Tohl by conventional means."

"This is not the voice of demoralization, or defeatism-. It is simple fact; arithmetic that a school-child can be taught to sum out on a sheet of construction paper with a crayon."

" _They_ are too many, and _we_ are too few."

" _Attrition_ on an almost unimaginable scale has been the strategy upon which The Robotech Masters through the Zentraedi have built their empire."

"And when, like The Robotech Masters, you have created the infrastructure to allow the near limitless supply of warriors and material to dedicate to attrition warfare and are prepared to accept the inevitable, heavy losses- it is and has been a _flawless_ strategy."

"I have no intention of conceding defeat and resigning from the fight, nor do I tolerate even the discussion of the possibility that this war will be lost."

"So it follows that what remains is achieving victory by _unconventional_ means."

General Breetai,

Military Chief of Staff,

Robotech Defense Forces

 _ **Artoc**_

Flagships and command ships, whatever their class, were like every other vessel in the Zentraedi inventory in that they were ruggedly designed with the underlying intent of battle capability.

Where the vessels that bore the standards of units from the battle group and task force level, to those that carried the Flag of a Grand Army- like _Artoc_ \- differed was that their _capabilities_ for battle were seldom applied directly _during_ battle.

Like the senior officers filling the top billets of an army's major units, these vessels were reserved from battle- sheltered in most cases behind concentric spheres of defense at whose core they were the cell's nucleus.

Like the nucleus of a cell, their purpose was not to immediately join the battle, but rather to direct their subordinates in battle.

For this reason the compartments, facilities, and spaces of any of these command-level vessels had within them, like any other Zentraedi vessel, the potential for conducting the most brutal operations conceivable in war- but remained pristine in the fact that the potential was seldom if ever realized.

 _Artoc_ in this respect was no different than any other command ship, and unquestionably the clearest example of the paradox of potential versus performance in the role of combat.

It was on the deck of an amidships hangar, no different in dimensions or configuration from scores of others aboard the _Nupetiet-Vernitzs_ Class vessel that was command nexus to The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl that Sub-General Caldettas found himself. Here, Caldettas was at peace with the paradox personified in the Fleet's mightiest warship.

Along the inboard compartment bulkhead stood staggered rows of Gnerl Fighter Pods, aligned and spaced perfectly. They had not seen combat, nor had their crews since those units had rotated aboard as recognition and reward for performance in battle sometime before. Like all units rotated to the flagship, they would continue to train and exercise for battle but never join unless the improbable should happen and battle should range into the proximity of _Artoc._ This would continue until they fell from favor by an inevitable dulling of their edge, and they would be returned to active operations- replaced by other razor-like units.

By contrast, and a cause of unease to Caldettas, was the presence on deck of a detachment of Kevtok's Serhot Ran warriors in their Nacht-Rau combat suits.

The power armor from Kevtok's unit bore like badges of honor the nicks, chips, and marring of constant combat deployment. Active engagement of his elite troops was something that Kevtok insisted upon, even if their base ship remained far removed from the fight.

Fiercely loyal to Supreme General Krymina and a precision tool of extreme effectiveness for her, the senior commander grudgingly permitted Kevtok's request routinely to allow them to maintain their proficiency.

Kevtok and his warriors _were_ fiercely loyal down to the individual, but still the presence of the Serhot Ran in their combat suits made Caldettas uneasy- even if distantly so. Even in an "unarmed" state, the powerful Nacht-Rau combat suits were still capable of rapidly causing great carnage- especially when under the control of elite warriors like the Serhot Ran.

All of the senior commanders of the 7th Grand Army were present on this very deck and if Zentraedi history taught anything it was that loyalties were subject to change. Supreme General Krymina herself was a testament to this.

Still, even though the thought of recent purges were still sharp in Caldettas's memory, there was the question of character.

Action Commander Kevtok was loyal because of his nature- not because of political convenience.

If there was danger in having Serhot Ran warriors armored in their combat suits mingling with the nerve center of the 7th Grand Army, it was soundly offset by the loyalty and obedience of Kevtok's warriors to him.

-And still, much as his role of executive to the commander demanded, Caldettas's mind returned again and again to the dangers remote but inherent to gatherings such as this.

In a single hangar, aboard a single ship- though be it the most securely guarded ship in The Fleet- were present all of the officer grade warriors whom the micronians would have to kill or incapacitate to effectively decapitate a Zentraedi grand army.

It was only the fact that the micronians did not know this, and were far from being in a position to act upon the information if they _had been_ in possession of it that brought the 7th Grand Army's executive officer any peace of mind.

Yet, Caldettas fretted over the potential dangers of such a gathering- it being his cautious nature that Krymina used to complement her far bolder personality.

Caldettas was also aware that Krymina was cognoscente of the peril she was courting in assembling her command's leaders as she was. The executive officer knew the message that she intended to send, and that this for Krymina was worth the modest risk.

Others were aware too of the underlying purpose of this ceremony and its implied message.

For Caldettas, there was the admittedly self-indulgent distraction of seeing the discomfort being suffered and poorly masked by Sub-General Jekketh..

The ranking commander of ground forces should have been aboard his command ship overseeing the ongoing landing activities on the alien world and initiation of major operations. These were the endeavors to which Jekketh was best suited, or at the very least most eager to engage in. It was through these duties after all that he was able to report ( _boast_ being the term that Caldettas preferred when the subject of Jekketh was broached) to Krymina _his_ accomplishments.

By contrast, observing and honoring the achievements of others, and standing witness to their reward from the supreme general stood at the other, _far_ end of the scale of Jekketh's personal preference.

-Especially as it applied to Kevtok.

Caldettas had sensed readily that Jekketh was in a personal dystopia.

He had not known how penetrating the discomfort of the ground force commander was until he forced himself to withdraw from his own distractions and give the gratifying matter his undivided attention.

Jekketh's face remained stoic as he visibly stood off from those who he conceded to be peers, and was abrasive to subordinates beyond the norm. Even his physical movement was stiff and labored- as though the torment had transcended the mental and had become a physical affliction.

It was delightful.

Caldettas could not have hoped to ask for more to serve his own amusement until he actually got it.

Jekketh approached him, overlooking his normal consideration that Caldettas was his chief and arch rival in competition for Krymina's favor.

"I'm certain that you've spoken to the supreme general about the unsettling precedence she's establishing here, Caldettas.", Jekketh said while looking anywhere and everywhere _except_ directly at the other sub-general.

An involuntary act, and one that Caldettas was fairly certain that Jekketh was unaware of doing for the third time in the space of the time that they had shared company in the hanger; Jekketh adjusted the ceremonial sash bearing his rank that was worn over his otherwise standard uniform of tunic and trousers.

"I have not.", Caldettas replied sounding intentionally unconcerned and striking the nerve in Jekketh that he calculated it.

"Supreme General Krymina is fully in possession of her faculties and therefore not in need of my counsel on matters for which she does not solicit it. Besides, Jekketh- the supreme general has not proclaimed her intent formally-. You're reacting to rumor- warrior's _gossip_."

Jekketh adjusted the seating of his sash about his powerful frame again at the executive officer's words- his face tightening with contempt for himself at attempting the dialogue with Caldettas, and contempt for Caldettas at so easily and readily taking best advantage of it.

"She favors him too much for too little.", Jekketh concluded, "You would think he had fought and won the entire campaign alone."

Caldettas, submitting to the enjoyment of probing the open wound he had found replied as benignly as he could manage, "Perhaps you are defeated in recognition from Supreme General Krymina by your success, Jekketh. She's grown accustomed your regular and outstanding performance, and it has become commonplace."

"Don't be threatened at any rate. You still have several significant steps in rank over Kevtok."

-And then, unable to resist, added, "Though I'm inclined to ask- for reasons of comparison- how long _did_ it take you to ascend from action commander to action general, first grade?.."

Jekketh, understanding at once Caldettas' motivation in asking, and fearing revelation that his armor had already been penetrated, answered bluntly,

"Less time than _you_ , as I recall-."

" _Form ranks and stand to attention!_ "

The order from the deck officer who was considerably junior to all but a few in the congregation was nonetheless obeyed quickly.

The officers formed neatly into squares that were grouped by unit affiliation and ordered from the front rows to the rear ones by descending order of rank.

Quickly all fell in to be standing to rigid attention with eyes locked forward as Supreme General Krymina led Kevtok to the head of the compartment with a junior aide taking up the rear of the small procession.

Once before the assembly of top billets, Krymina situated Kevtok as the focal point of attention while retaining her overall command of the proceedings and began to speak.

"Te'Dak Tohl were created by The Robotech Masters for the singular purpose of achieving what they themselves could not- direct dominance and control over complex and fluid situations, and governance over many by a few."

"Assurance in purpose, improvisation and creativity in thought and planning, and swift lethality in execution were the tools that they provided us to fulfill that role."

"For generations, our predecessors were content in the application of these tools for _their_ benefit- but _now_ is _our_ time- and we stand here witness to the evidence that these tools serve us just as well."

"Action Commander Kevtok, you have exemplified these principles and attributes that are core to our being and have in no small measure prepared by your actions the first battlefield on which the Te'Dak Tohl will fight for themselves- to claim _our_ inevitable and rightful place in the universe."

"Kneel please-."

Kevtok sank to a single knee in a display of fealty and obedience, bowing his head as his fists met the deck.

"Let it be known-.", Krymina said, receiving a sash from her aide that displayed the badge of rank that when bestowed would mark Kevtok as having overleapt a large number of the gathering standing at attention behind him, "-that you have earned the honor and the obligations of action general of the first grade-."

As the sash was moved to be placed on Kevtok by his superior, his hand rose swiftly, reflexively, and with the urgency that might have been expected had he been defending himself from a falling blade.

"Liege, I beg you- _no._ "

A singular gasp of horror was drawn by an assembly of warriors who had only known and had grown familiar with the very real terrors of battle.

Still kneeling, and with a reasonable expectation that he might never rise again, Kevtok lifted his head to speak.

"I understand the honor that I beg your forgiveness to decline, and it is not done as an act of ingratitude… -But I _know_ in my Warrior's core that this is not the path that will allow me to best serve you, or best serve the Te'Dak Tohl-. Fate has made me for a different method of service."

Caldettas, inwardly reeling still from the unspeakable refusal he had just witnessed saw in that moment what he might have as easily missed- what he knew Krymina guarded vigilantly against.

Sub-General Caldettas saw a fleeting glimpse of genuine shock in Supreme General Krymina's expression. -The unexpected confrontation with something of which she had not even conceived.

As quickly as the stunned expression had appeared, it was gone and Krymina's countenance resumed its masterful impenetrability.

"If not the honor of command, Kevtok- then what do you seek?"

Having crossed the threshold with no possibility of return, Kevtok said in earnest, "Liege, I _have_ the honor of command. I seek only to command in the role that best suits my abilities and best serves you. I continue to beg your forgiveness, and humbly request that you allow me to resume the role that Fate has guided me to for all my life of Service."

"Allow me to take my Serhot Ran back to the alien world and serve you _as_ Serhot Ran."

The sash bearing the badge of declined rank slipped from Krymina's fingers and settled in a heap on the deck before the still-kneeling Kevtok.

"Granted."

With the single word Krymina terminated the ceremony which arguably had been ended moments earlier by Action Commander Kevtok and made for the nearest exit from the compartment at a brisk but not a fleeing pace.

After the senior officer had departed the company, a weighty awkwardness remained. Even Krymina's aide, charged for the occasion with maintaining protocol was at a visible loss for what should come next.

Action Commander Kevtok, having retained his rank by the bizarre and unheard-of request he had made to Krymina, and having shattered the paradigm of ascent through the ranks by achievement in battle now dictated the protocol for the unprecedented event.

Kevtok simply rose from his knee and followed the path Krymina had taken just moments before, deviating only as he drew nearer to the compartment bulkhead to exit through a different hatchway- disappearing into a different interior space of the ship.

Crisp, perfectly assembled ranks in the company of officers dissolved immediately as the uneasy silence of commanders and the ever-present sounds of the ship were replaced by a common, troubled murmur.

Caldettas, still aghast by what had transpired was surprised to find himself more stunned by the event than Sub-General Jekketh who was smiling as he turned to face the army's executive officer.

As Jekketh was making only the cursory effort to conceal his pleasure, Caldettas felt no obligation to not observe it.

"For a warrior whose mishaps are meticulously planned, Jekketh- you are showing considerable delight at the _unexpected._ "

Jekketh clasped and wrung his hands in the way he might had he been given the opportunity to finally handle a long-coveted and denied object, saying, "Caldettas, your position at Krymina's side has softened you to the hard realities of how regimes rise and fall in this army. With Krymina's favor and Fate's, in two year's time Kevtok could have been sitting at the same table as you and I-."

"Instead, the fool has cut his own throat."

Caldettas, not as softened to these realities as Jekketh assumed considered nonetheless what Krymina's senior ground commander had said, and found himself after a brief pondering of it- unconvinced.

"You seem very certain of that, Jekketh."

" _Nothing_ is certain, Caldettas- you know this.", Jekketh said, not allowing his elevated mood to be taken down by the executive officer's non-concurrence, "-But rejecting Krymina's gesture-. That, I do not think will serve him well."

"I think you may not be seeing Kevtok's point, Jekketh.", Caldettas said, feeling comfortable that he was recognizing a possibility that Jekketh in his more linear and serial thinking had not even considered.

"That being?"

"He is a plain-spoken warrior, Jekketh- I believe that he said what he meant. The quality of his service is bound to his abilities and not his rank. I believe Kevtok was sincere in saying that a promotion to action general would remove him from the billet to which he is best suited, and diminish his service."

Jekketh, clearly recognizing what he had not seen before, indignantly replied, "That's yet to be seen, Caldettas. But I assure you, an action commander can only influence the course of a campaign but so much. I wouldn't concern yourself about being eclipsed by anything he does."

"-And if, _as_ an action commander he _does_ influence the course of this campaign- as he _already has_ \- then perhaps Kevtok has touched upon truly revolutionary thinking. We could both be eclipsed by a _subordinate_ officer."

His elation having survived only the length of his conversation with Caldettas, Jekketh snorted indignantly, "-Not likely on a battlefield over which _I_ have ultimate reign, Caldettas- not likely. He wants combat for himself and his Serhot Ran- so be it. I will give him _precisely_ what he has requested."

Caldettas recognized the undertones of treachery that Jekketh was blatantly voicing. If this was the course that Jekketh intended to follow, it was also technically the one that Kevtok had requested. The executive officer had no footing to interfere, and for the lives of a single Serhot Ran unit-even one as accomplished as Kevtok's- there was little reason to make the pointless effort.

"A simple warning to you, Jekketh, and then I'll say no more. If Kevtok survives the peril you intend to throw his unit into, then you will have only increased his prestige and position. You will have thrust him into the very place in the light that you fear him reaching."

Jekketh replied speculatively, "Possibly, Caldettas- but Kevtok is a single warrior and his Serhot Ran, only a small unit. Small units in massive battles sometimes have a way of finding themselves in a _bad place_."

"Unfortunately, the outcome is often- _regrettable._ "

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

"Liege, the first landing ship is nearing deployment position.", Sub-Commander Gahl told his superior and the new commanding officer of the 5121st Destroyer Squadron, Action Commander Iyos.

Iyos had effectively assumed the role of the squadron commander the day before when Action Commander Trefna had _relinquished_ it through the act of an untimely demise that coincided with the destruction of his own destroyer during the initial assault on the alien world. The official promotion had come later and in the form of a simple text communiqué from Action General Nohr which had been diminished somewhat by being dispatched as one message in a bulk dispatch sent to the entire battle group under his command.

Though significant for Iyos who still felt a rush when she reflected on her new, elevated rank- a promotion of this kind during combat operations was not uncommon.

The elation, however Iyos had found since, did have its cost.

The opening actions against the micronian world had been overwhelming by the battle plan's design, and as expected had achieved the tactical securing of the space surrounding the planet. Casualties among the vanguard units had been noticeably higher than predicted, but this was easily explained by the sophistication of the layered micronian defensive measures and by the lethality of the weapons they had employed.

Despite the disturbingly high losses to The 7th Grand Army, the micronian defensive shell had collapsed allowing landing operations to begin within the envelope of the established timetable.

Since that time, with the first landing ships moving into low orbit to sortie their transports ferrying combat units to ground- the depth of layering in the micronian planetary defenses had revealed itself. There had been of course the expected revelation of ground-based, fixed position anti-warship energy weapon batteries that had inflicted significant losses on landing ship groups that had passed unknowingly into their areas of engagement.

These gun emplacements had been quickly pinpointed and effectively reduced to an inoperative condition by the destroyer squadrons tasked to provide protection to the landing forces.

The waves of Re-Entry Transports making planetfall had subsequently met the waiting, final "ring" of the micronian planned defense in the form of aircraft and surface based missiles whose design had apparently been intended for the specific purpose of ravaging craft of the size of Zentraedi trans-orbital transports.

Though the effects of this last ring of defense and these weapons had been horrific and demoralizing at the tactical unit level- some ground units having been wiped out entirely before ever connecting foot and soil- this last measure had been ineffective overall in even slowing the onslaught of landing operation.

So had the landings commenced, and so it had been proceeding as the coordinated micronian defenses continued to wither and fail.

As Action Commander Iyos had come to recognize in campaigns against both the norghil and The Invid though, there was _rarely_ such a thing as "definitive" victory, and it was at those moments when one's enemy was showing every sign of having been routed that they were in fact the most dangerous through unpredictability.

So it was appearing to be true of the micronians who refused to concede defeat.

Iyos divided her attention between the split holographic displays suspended weightlessly over the forward area of her ship's bridge.

In one division of the display area, the planet's largest continent rolled steadily toward her under the uniform drape of night. De-fold of the massive assault force in such proximity to the planet had shut down much of the planet's unshielded power grid, and precision energy weapon strikes had knocked out what had remained in all of the strategically significant regions- leaving the intact population centers dark and unidentifiable to the naked eye. Sensor overlays did outline these mass dwelling clusters, as they also identified other areas of operational significance to include the landing zones to which ground units were still deploying.

As useful as Iyos found the visual display for her sense of orientation, it was the tactical display that provided her the best, overall situational awareness as a commander. The three-dimensional holographic image showed the remaining destroyers of her squadron deployed ahead and flanking in low orbit the trailing element of landing ships that remained in a higher, medium orbit.

Positioned in this way and at this altitude from the planet's surface, Iyos was imperiling her squadron more than she would normally have considered prudent as they were not truly "orbiting" the planet. To hold station relative to the landing ships for which they were providing screen cover, the destroyers were actually traveling slower than the velocity that true orbit required and were having to dedicate a significant portion of their engines' output to keeping themselves from plummeting into the upper atmosphere.

Their position, the nature of their slow and sweeping movement, and the danger inherent was necessary however.

"Sensor Control", Iyos said, "Report scan returns upon detection."

"Sensor Control to Command-. Yes, Liege.", came the reply from the sensor officer in charge of the team of specialists who directed and analyzed the returns of the ship's active and passive detection systems.

Though a capable and competent warrior, the sensor officer's voice had an edge of unease to it, and for good reason.

As had been reported quickly from every other landing group, and across all of the major continents on which planetfall of forces was ongoing, a final and perplexing danger had been stumbled upon.

There was something unseen and treacherous below, and it was hunting Te'Dak Tohl landing ships.

Action Commander Iyos had seen such an attack hours earlier; evidence that the unidentified menace was more than the imaginative explanation of warriors for the mishaps that often accompanies large-scale landings. The 5121st Squadron had been providing high orbital screen from possible micronian warship attack for the progression of Te'Dak Tohl landing ships while there had still been the concern of an immediate micronian counterattack, when a landing ship approaching a landing zone had taken a single energy weapon bolt _through_ its center mass.

Had the beam struck the landing ship four compartments back, it would have seriously damaged or pierced the ship's Reflex furnace reactor, and likely would have caused a catastrophic explosion destroying the vessel. Luckily, in this instance, only cargo and berthing spaces were penetrated. The damage had been severe, yes, and the ship forced to withdraw from low orbit before it had completed sortie of the unit it was landing- but it had not been destroyed.

Other landing ships, over all of the planet's continents had been less fortunate.

Reports from all incidents of this kind had been the same-. A landing ship on approach to its sortie point with standard destroyer screen would with minimal warning be struck by a single, high-intensity energy blast.

The key commonality of a _minimal warning_ was all that Action Commander Iyos had to work with to provide a defense, and what she and every other destroyer squadron commander had been grappling with since.

From accumulated reports and hastily arranged conferences between commanders, what had been discovered was that in each instance of the ground-based energy weapon being fired- it had been preceded by a short, narrow beam, high-intensity sensor pulse directed at the target. It had been puzzling at first that the sensor pulse never coincided in general location with the origin of the energy bolt that inflicted the damage.

Then, with thought, Iyos and the other commanders came to the only conclusion that made any sense and that they could all agree upon.

There were multiple ground-based units in play to allow the energy weapon to operate effectively.

There _had_ to be a micronian unit, much like the Regult Scout, that was responsible for identifying a landing ship target on approach- most likely passively. This unit then transferred this information to the unit operating the energy weapon itself. The sensor pulse detected immediately preceding the firing of the weapon was simply the gathering of last-moment target data for the fine-tuning of the weapon's firing solution.

The firing sequence of the weapon was too brief to accurately fix its position, as was the narrow-beam pulse that preceded it that might have provided the location of the micronian sensor unit.

Had Iyos had the free reign to execute all of her options, the situation would have been quickly resolved. In the absence of an identifiable, "hard target" she simply would have used her own guns to raze the region to a plain of smoldering, fused glass. As the campaign objectives outlined by Supreme General Krymina required the taking of the planet _intact_ and with minimal damage to and cluttering of the atmosphere by ejected debris as was generated by orbital gunfire- Iyos did not have the luxury of this option.

Other commanders had attempted the firing of mass swarms of missiles in great spreads into the regions from which the sensor pulses and energy bolts had originated- but up to this time there had been no evidence that a single Zentraedi missile had found its intended target.

This was easily understood by Iyos-. Many times when this form of retaliation had been attempted, the attacking vessel had been forced to reposition itself to be within range of firing its long-range missiles, and those missiles required time to reach their target areas- even when released directly above them.

It came down to the response time.

There was too much of a lag between the micronian attack and initiation of counterattack. Iyos understood from even her brief interaction with the micronians in battle that they were shrewd enough to not squander that time standing idle. They understood that they could not grapple with their enemy. To survive their own victories, they had to strike swiftly and _withdraw._

Fighter sweeps had been attempted also with the understood drawback that while more capable of conducting a prolonged search in an area Gnerls were slower to reach a target area than missiles.

Not only had the Gnerls not been successful in their target identification and neutralization efforts, but many a destroyer's fighter complement had become separated from its base ship when the destroyer had been forced to move off to allow for following waves of landing ships. Recovery of these fighters had been a time-consuming and complex task that had taken a good number of ships off of their escort duties. Some fighter squadrons remained even now, loitering pointlessly and waiting for the opportunity to return home.

Action Commander Iyos was nonetheless confronted by the same problem- defending the landing ships under her protection from this threat without impacting the deployment schedule of their forces.

Neither she, nor any other commander had yet conceived of a viable solution.

Still, the landings had to move forward.

The damage inflicted by this unanticipated menace was negligible- minimal at best- impacting morale more than reducing the overall combat effectiveness of the Te'Dak Tohl.

"Sensor sweep is clear.", the sensor officer reported as the landing zone rolled nearer, "No suspicious returns on metallic mass, no anomalous energy readings."

"Perhaps they have moved on-.", suggested Sub-Commander Gahl, "-Concerned at overhunting the same area."

Iyos wanted this to be true, but the suggestion did not fit the behavior of the menace.

"No-.", the action commander said, dismissing the suggestion, "Why should they have moved on? They are having perfect success operating as they are."

" _Sensor pulse detected!_ ", called out the sensor officer, his warning coinciding with a shrill tone from the suite of equipment operated by his team.

Iyos ignored the temptation to have the sensor specialists try to localize the pulse- it had happened too quickly and it was what would come next that was critical.

"Communications-…."

The visual display portion of the viewscreen flashed as a single beam of light, swirling orange and yellow through its shaft transected the image- passing clearly above and to the right of _Destroyer 2913_.

Iyos felt a surge of panic even as the energy stream went wide of her vessel- a natural response to a threat to which there was no time to respond. It was as much by realization that the weapon had not been targeting her ship in this attack as having come to understand that the intended victims of these ambushes were exclusively landing ships did Iyos quickly regain her composure.

"Sensor Control, can we localize the originating point for that beam?", Iyos asked as Sub-Commander Gahl issued other orders to multiple divisions on the command deck below.

"Calculating, Liege- though I-..", the sensor officer replied before the results of his team's feverish work was returned to him, "-Point of origin has been narrowed to an area fifteen atohls square, plus or minus three atohls."

As Iyos clenched her fist to take her frustration out on the arm of her command chair, the visual portion f the viewscreen changed to an aft view which showed the image of a ravaged landing ship staggering and struggling to maintain a steady course.

The bow of the vessel was gone, seemingly gnawed away leaving a hull-spanning stump of broken and twisted metal where decks containing storage compartments and hangars should have been.

An enormous and expanding cloud of smoke and debris was quickly falling astern of the stricken vessel- the inorganic gore that had been part of the landing ship only moments earlier.

Other ships of the same landing group could be seen maneuvering to clear themselves of the expanding ring of wreckage even as they began to deploy their considerable complements of Re-Entry Transports containing their planet-bound combat units.

Collectively, the squadron of landing ships appeared skittish and rattled- and indeed they were, Iyos knew as evident by the visibly rushed and panicked launch of their trans-atmospheric transports.

The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl had smashed utterly the meticulously planned defenses of this world in hours only the day before, but now warships of the same Zentraedi army were unable to defend the vessels under their protection from what had to be a comparative handful of micronians.

And over this single landing zone, those micronians had been claiming landing ships at the rate of one an hour, resulting in the deaths of thousands of warriors whose exact number had not yet been fully tallied.

"We could immediately deploy fighters, Liege-.", Gahl proposed, returning to the course of action that had been tried and failed, though adding, "They could fly a sweeping pattern. There is no assurance that our pilots would come across this weapon and its crew, but there is always the possibility."

Iyos considered the suggestion briefly- it being the best available, but ultimately dismissed it with a gesture of her hand.

"No, Gahl-. We _could_ fix on the enemy- but I'm not inclined to risk the irrecoverable separation of our fighters while the operational area is still fluid."

Gahl's frustration was simmering just below the surface of his expression, controlled but still easily read by his superior.

"Liege, I'm having difficulty with doing nothing while this micronian weapon continues to knock our landing ships out of action."

Iyos shook her head, understanding that her intention had been misunderstood.

"I'm not suggesting doing nothing, Gahl-. I'm suggesting that _we_ are not the right ones to be doing something about this. How long do we have until our next rotation through the escort cycle?"

"Just under two hours, Liege."

"Contact the commander of the ground unit that will be deploying to the surface. If the commander is agreeable, tell him I would like to request he apply his reserve forces to an _unplanned_ task."

"Hunting the weapon from the ground?", Gahl said, grasping at once what Iyos had been contemplating .

Iyos gave a nod that was not an indication of certainty, but suggested a decision in which she had some degree of faith.

"Missiles can't seem to acquire this micronian weapon, and Gnerls can only loiter and search for so long. A _ground_ unit, on the other hand-."

"I will identify and reach out to the correct commander to whom you will have to speak, Liege.", Gahl said brightly- elated with the prospect that a solution to the problem had been found.

"Do that, Gahl. And if this commander is not interested in my proposal, we may have to reach out to those who have already deployed. I'm not above appealing to an officer's healthy sense of vengeance."

"Yes, Liege."

 **Ukraine**

The steppes beneath their thick blanket of snow were illuminated by a stream of energy that erupted like a geyser from the northeast. The irregularly braided beam of color that ranged from the palest yellow to the most vivid orange washed the plain and the low-hung canopy of clouds alike in a dance of terrible, warm hues before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Captain Alexander Cherghuliev of the 5th Guards Armored Corps had chosen to watch the firing of the Synchro cannon through a direct, unenhanced video feed from his commander's viewer. For obvious reasons there had been no need to apply the viewer's sophisticated image intensification systems- and in fact the application of the integrated IR and light enhancement features would have spoiled the terrible and breathtaking sight.

Since the 301st Mobile Planetary Defense Battery Regiment had deployed under the protection of the 5th Guards nearly 24 hours before now, Cherghuliev had seen the energy weapon fire almost as many times. Like the previous firings, Cherghuliev felt no less captivated by this one than he had by the first.

A deep boom rolled over the steppes and Cherghuliev's Cavalier tank, causing electronics gear to tremble in their racks as the concussion wave swept the bitterly cold night like the report of artificial lightning.

The tank platoon commander had heard stories that even from several kilometers away that the radiant energy from the weapon when fired was enough to sunburn exposed skin. This of course Cherghuliev had no interest in personally verifying, nor did he want to test the warnings about looking in the direction of the firing gun with the naked eye. He was satisfied with marveling at the destructive beauty through high definition camera and high resolution LCD screen.

Besides, combat operations not to mention the sub-freezing temperatures that would cause frostbite to exposed skin in a matter of minutes demanded that he remain inside the turret of his tank and with the hatch buttoned up.

With the firing of the Synchro Cannon, the stopwatch had been started again measuring in seconds the mad dash the gun platform would have to make to displace from its firing position. While the Zentraedi somewhere far above were undoubtedly reeling from the damage done to or the destruction of one of their vessels- the shock _would_ wear off.

When it did, all of the manifestations of Hell that one breed of mortal creatures could rain down upon another could be expected.

 _Could_ be expected- "could" being the operative word.

As devastating a weapon as the Synchro Cannon was against warships, its usefulness would have been seriously reduced had the expectation been that it would be destroyed by counter-fire after only a single shot.

Great effort had been made to ensure that these mag-lev borne platforms whose dimensions fit neatly but barely onto a professional soccer field could lash out at an enemy with only the most minimal warning and then vanish into open country with scarcely a bent grass blade left in their wake to mark their passing.

No small amount of this vanishing act was due to the well-rehearsed practice of the "shoot and scoot"- firing the weapon and then employing the admirable speed of the levitation platform and a series of well practiced maneuvers to quickly put the gun far away from the firing point and as quickly as possible.

Another portion of the gun's survivability was the so-called "tortoise shell" of micro-facetted radar absorbent material that shrouded the platform and gun when stowed for movement. Beneath this umbrella of poly-carbon fiber that swallowed or utterly fragmented the EM energy of even the most powerful active sensor systems, the Synchro Cannon was classified as "ultra-low observable" from all but a few angles.

The "tortoise shell", despite its name was deceptively fragile and insubstantial, accounting for less than 1% of the gun platform's nearly 200 metric ton weight. Absurd as the gossamer shroud was though, it was tested and its concept validated on many a test range and proving ground.

It had been tested and proven itself many times in the past day in the only environment that really counted.

Cherghuliev was aware of this by virtue of the fact that he was still drawing breath and not vapor mingling with the atmosphere. His tank, as well as all of the tanks and support vehicles of the 5th Guards skulked in unlikely stealth beneath tortoise shells of the same composition.

While the need for large numbers of armored vehicles in warfare had remained constant for a century now- _longer_ if one expanded the dependency on armored vehicles in warfare to include the need of _extraterrestrial_ species- the threats against armor had only increased.

With the possibility of space-going adversaries it had become probable that an orbiting weapon system would be developed to pinpoint and destroy armor, either individually or in mass. Humankind had been moving rapidly in this direction with the assumption being that nations of _homo-sapiens_ would menace one another in this way, but the arrival of the Zentraedi had realized the threat somewhat differently.

Only reliable concealment could now protect the dreaded steel beasts of the battlefield.

Oddly though- and Cherghuliev made a point in being clear with God that he was in favor of this anomaly- the Zentraedi were making only the most minimal attempts to strike back at the Synchro Cannon from orbit and by extension the 5th Guards defending it.

Having been born into a "Russian" mentality of the nature of warfare, Cherghuliev understood how the Zentraedi might regard the warship-killing Synchro Cannon as an impressive but nonetheless _mere_ annoyance. Even if every Synchro Cannon deployed operated to its utmost potential, the actual losses inflicted upon a force as large as that fielded by this enemy was negligible. As many Zentraedi as the Synchro Cannon could kill, there were multitudes who would never even feel the hint of its threat or pause to consider it.

Cherghuliev recognized that the Synchro Cannon was the proverbial flea on the dog's back.

Like the proverbial flea providing an annoyance to the proverbial dog though, Cherghuliev also knew that the time would come when the dog would have the inclination and find the time to scratch.

When that time came, Cherghuliev knew that he and the 5th Guards would no longer have the luxury of passively observing the dreadfully beautiful aspects of war from afar, and would have to carry the burden of it for their own survival.

That time would come- it was a certainty.

"Rabbit."

The code phrase was the one that Cherghuliev had listened for on the scrambled command frequency used by the 5th Guards after each firing of the cannon as it signified the order for the unit to displace from its large defensive ring around the Synchro Cannon and join the gun in a mad dash of maneuvers for a predetermined rallying point.

It was time to disappear again into the Ukrainian night like assassins fleeing the scene of the deed.

Cherghuliev shifted his attention to his commander's console that consisted of three touch-responsive multi-functional display screens clustered before his seat in the turret of his tank.

Anticipating the direction for force movement from his chain of command, Cherghuliev had left the force direction application on the large, navigational MFD open and waiting. Now, with a touch of the screen to the desired, pre-determined waypoint, and a selection of formation and speed for the seven other tanks under his command- clear instructions were issued to the other tank commanders and drivers without the need for a word spoken.

The captain felt a lurch as the thirty metric tons of steel and composite armor clawed into movement, headlong into the deepening snow.

Despite the cold radiating into the cramped space of the turret, Cherghuliev's gunner in the seat to the right of the gun breech was looking bored, and the loader on the verge of dozing, comfortable in the embrace of the vest through which the tank circulated warm or cold air to offset whichever climate extreme the vehicle might be operating in.

Cherghuliev knew that he should have roused the loader to alertness with harsh words, but he- they all had been actively operating for a full day now without a sanctioned pause to operations, and The 5th Guards were certain to be doing the same for the foreseeable future. Cat-naps had to be taken where they could.

The gunner would probably drift at some point too, and Cherghuliev would also let this go for a short period of time. He would let them enjoy their uneasy sleep until the platoon reached a longer leg of its cross-country maneuver at which time he'd wake them again to monitor for any impending threat while he had his turn resting his eyes.

It was an unauthorized but tested system, practiced with as much dedication as any force maneuver.

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

"Well, this _has to be_ the place-.", commended LCDR Mitch Petersen to his superior as he took in the company assembled in the briefing room that was nestled deep within the Fleet Operations wing of Walhalla's OC.

If Commander Devereaux had had any questions that she and her executive officer were reporting to the correct briefing room after having to pass through two identification checkpoints and a pair of particularly humorless looking Marine guards outside of the room, then those within the room quelled any doubt.

At a glance Devereaux recognized two other frigate commanders and their executive officers whom she and Petersen knew personally. By patch identification, she spotted a dozen other frigate commanders, as well as a destroyer commander who kept company with four other officers whose unit affiliations Devereaux could not establish from the doorway.

Most noteworthy of the commanding officers present, by the coveted billet he occupied if not by battle record, was Captain Julian Hollenkamp who was master of _SDF-3_ under the flag of Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter.

"This has got to be the place.", Devereaux parroted, unaware that she had done so as she was already lost in speculation as to into what she had volunteered the _Gordon P. Samuels_.

A yeoman who was grossly outranked by all in the compartment but who still held the charge of protocol announced with surprising volume as the door slid shut behind Devereaux and Petersen,

"Sirs and ma'ams, REF Expeditionary Fleed-."

The churning wash of a dozen or more overlapping conversations dropped to perfect silence with the exception of bodies coming to rigid attention as the slender yet intense form of Vice-Admiral Hayes-Hunter entered the briefing room from a side door.

As the assembled commanding and executive officers had been ordered to do, so too did the admiral, wearing her duty utility overalls- the only distinction between she and those who had been tapped and summoned being the three stars on her shoulders and the patches indicating her particular unit affiliations.

As Hayes-Hunter made her way to the podium to the right of the forward end of the briefing room, she made a sweeping downward motion with her hand- typically unpolished in style as Hayes-Hunter was known to be.

"Everyone have a seat please-. We don't have a lot to cover, but our time, even minutes are better spent not talking about our mission, but executing it."

Devereaux and Petersen, still at the rear of the chamber fell into the seats closest to them rather than closing ranks with their peers before sitting. It was practical and only felt uncomfortable to be seated in relative isolation after the deed had been done.

Hayes-Hunter waited for the lights to dim and the holographic screen at the front center of the briefing room to come on with the REF emblem at the center of a blue field bracketed by header and footer banners in orange, warning: "TOP SECRET", before she began.

"I know that I do not need to remind any of you that the following briefing is Top Secret and compartmentalized.", Hayes-Hunter said flatly the way a bored server might recite the day's specials in a restaurant, "A thumbnail of the mission briefing that is to follow is that we are to enter an angry hornet's nest, friends, and _thrash it_. Commanders can and should expect regular contact with the enemy with minimal warning followed by intense combat situations. Once on mission in the operational area, contact with Walhalla and the Fleet will be minimal and our expectations of external support must be minimal at best. We will be on our own."

"Now, before we get into any of the details,- if this does not sound like your game, then there will be no repercussions nor any ramifications or hard feelings- but I will ask you to leave now."

As though the slightest movement might be mistaken as doubt or reservation, the company of officers to whom Hayes-Hunter spoke remained deathly still uniformly, and with a deeper silence than they had held upon her entry into the briefing room.

Hayes-Hunter nodded her clear approval, " _Good-._ I asked for steely-eyed killers from the cream of the Fleet, and I can see those are the commanders I've gotten. Consider yourselves and your commands all attached to Operation Doolittle, and bound by the secrecy it demands."

The generic briefing opener image was replaced by a star chart of the Sol System whose outer boundaries were drawn at the Kuiper Belt. A tactical overlay of range gridlines laid out in light-minutes and Astronomical Units gave scale and distance reference, and standard iconography clearly laid out the locations of Zentraedi fleet massing.

"These concentrations of Zentraedi Fleet units are being relayed to Walhalla by the surviving, interplanetary sensor buoy network and are consistent with Zentraedi operational doctrine.", Hayes-Hunter said, motioning to the gatherings of vessels around Earth and then between Earth and Mars.

"As you can see from the latest compilation of data, a defensive sphere of warships has formed around Earth with the two-fold purpose of providing support and protection for landing forces, and to prevent any possible approach by our Fleet to assist our resident forces or land additional ones."

"Simultaneously, the Te'Dak Tohl have assembled the landing ships that constitute the bulk of their fleet just under a half AU from Earth. This puts them out of the range of Earth-based weapons, but still close enough to resupply and support their forces as needed."

"Understandably, another large portion of the enemy's combat units is performing picket and screen duty to defend these mission-critical assets. Our enemy may not be innovative in their deployment of forces, but they are not foolish."

"Passive sensors have detected in the past twelve hours a considerable amount of fold activity- vessels _egresssing_ the Sol system in battle group strength. General Breetai suspects, and NavIntel concurs that this most likely represents the sortie of enemy units searching for us-. _Us_ being Walhalla and the Fleet as a whole."

Hayes-Hunter paused, allowing the tactical situation in the home star-system to settle in on her audience, before continuing. She, like the rest of the military senior leadership had had the benefit of constant and detailed briefings of the situation as it had evolved to the extent that information was available. Many of those in the room had little knowledge of things outside of the preparation of their vessels for a battle that they knew would be coming.

"What this sums up to is, and no matter how you slice it- is that the enemy, this General Krymina, has elected to divide her admittedly large force into three tasks that each demand a considerable allocation of resources. She is beginning to spread herself thin in the effort to hold onto what she has, and to fix on and obtain what she still wants."

"We will exploit this because while she is for now holding back sufficient forces to mount a formidable defense of captive Earth, the rate and portion of warships she is deploying to hunt for us seems to indicate a belief that the fight will continue outside of the Sol system."

"Our counterattack, the _first_ of this war, is simple in concept and purpose.", Hayes-Hunter predicated, "We want to bring the fight, even if it is a strategically insignificant one, to the enemy's doorstep where they don't believe it can happen- and we will poke Supreme General Krymina in the eye in doing so."

"Execution in putting our forces into place is more complex-.'

The three dimensional star chart expanded until the Sol system and its details while still visible only occupied the lower left, forward quadrant of the map.

Hayes motioned to an open area of space beyond the Oort Cloud that enveloped and dwarfed Sol and all of its satellites. At this point in space at the center of the chart, a flickering icon appeared signifying "friendly" forces in standard symbology.

"We will use a two-phase insertion into the operational area.", Hayes-Hunter explained, "The initial sortie from Walhalla will employ _SDF-3_ 's spherical field fold system to carry the entire strike force to this point- approximately ten AUs outside of the outer layers of the Oort Cloud."

CDR Devereaux was with Hayes-Hunter on each point, understanding the reasoning behind each detail before it was explained and rejoicing inwardly that she had volunteered the _Gordon P. Samuels_ to participate.

While it was admittedly humbling to have her command "carried", as it were, to the operational initiating point by the REF Flagship- it was a practical necessity. In trials, _SDF-3_ had proven its design capability to generate a spacefold "bubble", or _sphere_ , large enough to transport an entire battle group on a position jump. The original intent had been for this capability to be used to transport an expeditionary force to The Robotech Masters' home, Tirol.

Plans had changed somewhat since the finalization of _SDF-3_ 's specifications, though the capability was still of great value.

Devereaux also understood immediately the initial destination point for the fold jump. The subspace displacement, or "ripple", caused by the de-fold of _SDF-3_ and the task force would take roughly two hours to reach and be detectable by the Te'Dak Tohl in their present and known positions. Two hours was more than sufficient time for commanders of the caliber of those present in the briefing room to hide themselves in the nothingness of open space.

-But Devereaux was certain that Hayes-Hunter's plan did not revolve around _hiding_.

"-At this point, the task force will divide into its two elements.", Hayes-Hunter continued, "Doolittle One, consisting of _SDF-3_ , the destroyer, _Rampage_ , and four arsenal ships will linger long enough for Doolittle Two, with Commodore Tran's four Garfish carriers as centerpiece with accompanying frigates will re-deploy to the far side of Sol. At approximately the same time Doolittle Two is arriving at its first independent position screened in its arrival by Sol's mass, Doolittle One will fold in _danger close_ to the massing of landing ships assembled between Earth and Mars."

"Doolittle One's first task will be to stage a surprise attack on the Te'Dak Tohl supply and support force, inflicting as much damage as possible in the time that our position remains tenable. This will _not_ be long."

"Doolittle One will then withdraw outside of the Oort Cloud and detach the arsenal ships to return immediately to Walhalla. Our hope and expectation is that Doolittle One will draw out a large, enemy response force from the Sol system in pursuit of us. _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_ 's mission task will then become a game of cat and mouse with as many Te'Dak Tohl units as the enemy will deploy, and to keep them engaged in pursuit of us for as long as possible."

The holographic chart zoomed in again to its original scale with the Sol system out to the Kuiper Belt occupying the volume of the three-dimensional image.

Doolittle Two's de-fold point on the far side of Sol appeared and blinked for attention- the home star standing between the mission element and the contested space around Earth and mid-way to Mars.

With the appropriate image in place, Hayes-Hunter resumed her mission briefing, "As I said a few moments earlier, Sol's mass should shelter Doolittle Two's arrival from detection, assuming no coincidental discovery by a random enemy patrol. The chaos caused by Doolittle One's opening action will certainly aide in this."

"Doolittle Two's mission orders from that point are simple and with broad powers of interpretation and execution given to Commodore Tran and individual commanders. You will harass the enemy at your discretion for as long as your battle-worthiness, weapons load, and supplies will support combat operations."

"Specific objectives and target priorities will be set by Commodore Tran under the overarching guidance of Operation Doolittle objectives."

"When the commodore has determined that Doolittle Two has accomplished all that it can hope to achieve, elements will rally with _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_ for mass exfiltration and rejoin Walhalla and the Fleet."

Hayes-Hunter gave a small nod to the yeoman running the briefing room who shut down the hologram projector and brought the overhead lights back up to full intensity. The vice-admiral stepped out from behind the briefing podium, reducing instantly the formality of the atmosphere.

As she spoke again, it was this time less as a senior officer, but as something softer and more easily related to.

"Before we break down into element-level briefings and preparations, I wanted to share a few thoughts that I believe..-. _No,_ that's wrong-. –That I hold in my heart as truth and ask you to do the same-."

"First-. Having heard the scope and objective of this operation, I don't believe that anyone in this room is under the misconception that we are to make a great strategic contribution to this war with what we are to do. Any significant or lasting effect we have on our enemy will be psychological-. They will _know_ that this war that they have begun is _not_ the one that they anticipated or were prepared for."

"Second-. Though this highly dangerous operation will not bring the war closer to an end by a single day, I also believe firmly that it serves to a matter of the highest importance and greatest good. We will be demonstrating to our brothers and sisters in uniform, and to the population as whole that even in the _direst_ circumstances that the Earth is our home and we will _not_ surrender it to anyone under _any_ circumstance."

"There are dark days ahead and there will be times of great sorrow, but in time there _will_ be light."

 **The Mojave Desert,**

 **The Western Outlands**

An artificial wind stirred the dust on the surface of the parched earth as a dozen LAM-7 Scimitar tactical cruise missiles swept in a staggered column over the desert scarcely higher than the Joshua trees left swaying in their wakes.

Each weapon in their southeasterly course scanned the narrow corridor of space before them with rapidly pulsing microwave radar, ensuring that they would not terminate their preordained, brief life spans prematurely by coming into unrecoverable contact with the harsh terrain that they sped fearlessly over. Spurred on toward their own certain doom by the dispassionate but relentless drive of a computer mind executing a sophisticated series of autonomously selected programs, the flight of Scimitars deferred to the master judgment of the lead weapon receiving tactical information through a scaled-down InfoLink network formed within the flight.

The "leader" was no different in capability or configuration from any of the eleven clones that followed it. By cold, mathematical process it had been selected to lead the suicide charge by virtue of its position when a distant JSTARS had detected the crossing of an enemy unit over an invisible, longitudinal line and had ordered the missiles that had been loitering in a low orbit of two square kilometers of unremarkable desert landscape into action.

Any of the trailing missiles had the ability to assume the role of leader if the weapon on point were to be damaged or destroyed- but now, with the initiation of terminal guidance programs only seconds away it was unlikely that any of the eleven trailing missiles would ever ascend to the limited height of the leader.

Broad, flattened, capsule-like bodies of radar absorbent carbon fiber turned sharply left on swept, variable angle wings to present a minimal radar cross-section as the leading missile liberated its subordinates to execute the variation of a standard attack plan that it had formulated only nanoseconds before giving the final command

The time elapsed between the moment when the JSTARS commander had elected to commit the loitering missiles to this one had been just under thirty-five seconds.

The dust raised by the light mechanized infantry company of Regults at a full advance was significant and could be seen from every point on the horizon but was nonetheless dwarfed by cloud rising from the division formation it was pacing.

Acting as a screen element to its own 904th Division and, defending more broadly a middle portion of the right flank of the 16th Rapid Assault Corps, the company composed of an even mix of standard and artillery Regults was simultaneously one of the most and least important units in the drive to the southeast. Holding a measured distance from the main body of the 16th Corps- an increment learned and proven in conflicts with both norghil and Invid- the company was expected to detect and engage any enemy forces that might stage an attack on the Te'Dak Tohl unit's vulnerable flank.

While with its medium and short-range Artillery Regults and their ample supply of multi-purposed missiles the company could act as an effective spoiling force- the unit itself was not expected to survive in any measurable way should it have to perform its function. It was expected to simply buy other units the time to detach from the main body of the corps in sufficient numbers to meet the triggering threat.

It was an accepted risk of an assignment that was regarded in equal parts as an honor and as a potential death sentence.

This company had received its assignment before planetfall with the same blend of gratitude and resignation as many others that were performing the same role this day, and as the innumerable others that had performed the same role in countless movements in countless Zentraedi battles and campaigns.

What had differed this day from the vast majority of instances where similarly assigned units had been called into action was that the guard units that had engaged this day on the part of the 16th Fast Assault Corps had found themselves defending against an enemy that they were ill-equipped to engage.

This guard unit of Regults had witnessed the inability of another company assigned the same mission as they to counter a previously unknown micronian threat less than an hour before.

They became aware of the parallels between the opening moments of the attack that led to the demise of their counterparts and the evolving conditions facing themselves with scarcely enough time to become genuinely concerned.

Their warning systems had identified the pulse of microwave emissions at a frequency and intensity that could be interpreted no other way than as active sensors saturating them with their energy.

Skimming the desert as the Scimitars were, and with their negligible return to the Regults' own, less sophisticated sensors- the LAM-7s were virtually invisible until the final seconds of their attack when they performed a steep climb in a "pop-up" attack, fanning out to spread themselves out in the path of the galloping mecha.

Carbon fiber fuselage panels blew away as canister sub-munitions were fired free of the missiles' bodies in the widest possible dispersal. Free of their delivery system, the canisters counted down in nanoseconds to a common point and burst- filling the air with an invisible aerosol of combustible vapor that only required a spark.

The air itself over the Regult company erupted in a thundercloud of brilliant orange flame that endured for the blink of an eye before consuming itself and transforming into a dingy, brown smudge of smoke.

The instantaneous combustion of fuel in its brevity was almost unperceivable in its brevity- but its effects could not be missed.

An immense heat and pressure wave generated by the fuel-air explosion shook the desert and was felt by units in the 16th Corp's main element even over the quaking of earth caused by the rapid step and fall of mechanized feet.

Reinforced terilium bodies were crushed and twisted into the baked earth and sent tumbling with the force of the blast as the sparse desert vegetation and few unfortunate creatures around them ignited and was burned instantaneously into ash.

" _Boom_ -. Dead dittos.", Vice said blandly as the puff of disturbed desert earth raised by the explosion was sucked into itself by the vacuum left in the wake of the massive combustion and sent skyward like an earth-toned finger pointing accusingly at Heaven.

"-Like the hammer of God comin' down on you-. Don't tell me _that shit_ didn't hurt…"

From twenty kilometers away, the aftermath of the Scimitar attack could have probably been missed by Knight Hawk Squadron's A-Flight had they not been privy to knowing that it was coming. By comparison to the pawl of dust raised by the rapidly moving Zentraedi columns it had been miniscule at best- but knowing the cause of the smaller, localized disturbance made it seem that much more sinister when seeing it from such a distance.

Vice's _blasé_ , play-by-play commentary of the eradication of roughly two hundred sentient beings- "enemy" though they were- made the distant spectacle of violence much less palatable to Winters. It was unsettling to the squadron leader to so soon be so callused and detached from what was being done by necessity.

The endurance of empathy and humanity was not threatening to exceed its potential with A-Flight, it seemed.

In Vincenz's outwardly apathetic prattling, there had been an insincerity that only those who knew the major would likely have detected. Like a joke told about real tragedy, it was a mind's way of dealing with the grotesque.

What worried Winters was the knowing that in time, at some point, and if he and his pilots lived long enough to reach that psychological milestone- the apathy might not be feigned.

He had seen it happen in conflicts less severe than this one was promising to be, and he understood it. The human mind did things to protect itself when no other means of coping met the bill- it was the sacrifice of humanity for the preservation of sanity.

Winters also knew and had seen the evidence that sometimes there was no coming back from that state of indifference. It was the embodiment of Faustian bargain in that what was preserved had no meaning with the loss of what was traded.

The dead, after all, were not the only ones destroyed by wars.

Knight Hawk Squadron was far from that point though.

Winters was far from that point.

As quickly as the thoughts had flitted through his mind, Winters drove them out and focused on his flight's mission- cursing the enemy he had pitied a moment before for not allowing him to engage in it.

The Zentraedi _had_ to be aware that A-Flight was loitering in a broad and lazy wagon wheel defensive orbit within reach of their medium rang missiles- but they weren't even attempting to strike back. Their focus seemed to be to the southeast which Winters well-knew to be nothing but hundreds, _thousands_ of square kilometers of desert wasteland.

They were in a hell of a hurry to get into it though.

Gratifying as _picking_ a fight would have been, Winters was also cognizant that his orders _forbade_ him from breaking the tension by instigating one.

His orders were to guard against the first signs of an enemy redirection toward Edwards, and Arnie had made it clear that violation of those orders would be dealt with harshly. It was no secret to even the most eager brawler on NORAMWEST's only remaining, _viable_ base that the RDF did not have the resources in the AOR to win, or even survive in a meaningful way such a fight.

The lull, maddening as it was, was also quite necessary for the RDF-AF units operating out of Edwards.

A single night, and half a day of relentless sorties, first against the Zentraedi forces making planetfall, and later in strike operations mostly by Adventurer IIs against units that had either been intended to move against Edwards or appeared as thought they might have had seriously depleted the base's ordinance stockpile.

While not yet at a critical level, Major General Butler had shrewdly recognized that his wing's supply of weapons was finite and the likelihood of prompt resupply unlikely. NORAMWEST was going to have to choose its battles wisely, or risk expending itself into ineffectiveness for want of the tools of war.

The enemy _was_ out there though, and probably similarly frustrated as Winters with orders preventing them from just getting at the business for which they had been bred.

Within 70 kilometers of where _Marilyn_ idled in orbit over open desert there were loitering Zentraedi units aloft. Gnerls in several squadrons' strength ran a circuit almost due east- with only a small portion of them actively running their radars- apparently having learned the lessons that Valkyries could blind as well as kill.

Other Gnerl squadrons had positioned themselves and were patrolling areas far out into The Outlands, while low level top cover was kept over the advancing Zentraedi by units of the Queadlunn Rau variant like the one that had taken Gecko the night before.

If any combination of these Zentraedi air units elected to scuffle, Winters knew he would be forced to put up a brief and futile resistance before retreating before vastly superior forces- but the enemy appeared content to engage in a BVR staring contest.

For now.

The Mojave was also the stage for ground force movements other than those of the Zentraedi.

Diminutive by comparison in all respects to the corps-strength Zentraedi force that was advancing by great, parallel columns in a southeasterly direction, the RDF Army's 17th Combined Assault Division was massing to the aliens' northwest.

Winters and his squadron were aware of the fast response unit's presence as a "Blue Force" on reduced InfoLink run through the local JSTARS and AWACS aircraft. The division, by Major General Butler's quick brief on the subject, had been three weeks into a training rotation at Fort Irwin when the war had begun. Already a proficient unit in the skills and tactics of open-field, mechanized warfare- the 17th had been just at the point of restoring a razor's edge to its fighting prowess when the shooting had started.

Around the time that Winters and the intercepting "Militia" force had been engaging the Zentraedi landing force bound for the NORAMWEST AOR- the 17th CAD had been melting into concealment in the terrain of Fort Irwin having attached the resident Opposing Force, or "OPFOR" units, into its ranks. Having nearly doubled its size with the additional training units whose assignment as such was based on their combat skill and aggressiveness, the 17th CAD had emerged from concealment in the pre-dawn hours and had begun a movement toward the enemy in the best condition that could have been hoped for to join battle.

There was only the issue of disproportionate forces.

As Winters had recognized he was significantly outnumbered by enemy air units, so the 17th CAD's commander- a General Weschler whom Winters had seen in passing before his sortie- had to be grappling with the fact that his formidable unit was _hopelessly_ outnumbered by Zentraedi ground forces.

It was the RDF's common reality of the day.

"Sucks to be The Southern Cross today.", Pinball commented- possibly voicing a thought prompted by Vice's statements of several seconds earlier.

"It sucks to be The Southern Cross _any_ day, Pinball.", Major Tomas "Maverick" Cruz replied with a snort fraught with an air of superiority.

"Today more than most days though.", Ott countered without disagreeing and in an attempt to provoke conversation for lack of anything more destructive to do, "Figure that horde of dittos is headed for South America- or someplace _closer_ to South America than here-."

"Them and God knows how many others.", Skinny chipped in.

"- _And_ God knows how many others-.", agreed Pinball, "And between here and there is _every_ ASC major installation and industrial center. I don't think the dittos are gonna just brush by those."

"Better them than us.", Winters said sounding more bitter than he thought he would. With all that had gone on in the past thirty-six hours, his ability to hold a grudge had remained unshaken.

"At least they are still the _home_ team.", "Blitz" Rechtberg pointed out, blunting Winters' comfort with his own prejudices somewhat.

The squadron leader lost sight of the Zentraedi as _Marilyn_ turned in her constant left bank into the westward leg of the wagon wheel.

Rechtberg had been right, of course-. Opposed as Winters had become recently to even the existence of The Army of the Southern Cross and its internal policies and practices in its region of control- they _were_ technically human.

That had a stronger measure of importance today.

-And some- _many_ \- of those humans were either in harm's way or already embroiled in it.

" _Damn_ if that isn't a sad comment on the state of the world when a bloody German has to remind us of our humanity-.", Winters grumbled.

Apparently he had some deep-seated grudge against Germans too- but that may have been an _English_ preoccupation.

Winters had always prided himself on being able to hold multiple grudges simultaneously.

 **The Panama Canal Joint Military Zone**

There was no 433rd Engineers anymore.

There did not even appear to be an RDF-Army-.

-Not from Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen's brief captures of his surroundings.

Certainly there was nothing of what a trained and disciplined Army should resemble- only a rabble in uniform behind the wheels of RDF Army vehicles, at the controls of RDF-Army mecha, or simply fleeing as fast as RDF-Army issued boots would carry them.

This was the panicked flight eastward along the general path that the Autopista de Sur followed toward La Puerta de Las Americas- the "withdrawal" never having been a formalized order, and now not even having the cohesion to warrant the military moniker of a "retreat".

The Autopista de Sur burned 150 meters to Nguyen's north as RDF, ASC, civilian contractor, and civilian non-combatant surged in a torrent of stumbling terror through undergrowth and the obstacle course standing and fallen trees.

A constant moan hovered over the dank jungle floor like an audible mist, coming from the trampled and broken forms of those who had fallen underfoot. The roar of vehicles on fire along the Autopista was too far to cover it, and the smaller fires that had broken out within the tree cover where randomly fired Zentraedi missiles had gnawed trees down to mid-trunk and had opened the canopy to soot-smudged sky did not do enough in their crackling to conceal the sound. In these mauled spaces, shrapnel-shredded corpses lay in the precise order and interval in which they had been moving east. Some were missing limbs, others were unrecognizable with the wounds and explosive trauma sustained.

These were at least silent though.

Elsewhere, the piercing screams of the wounded rose over all other sounds, entering the ear like the point of a dagger and corkscrewing icily along the already terror-numbed spines of those who were still in a state of mind to be able to hear and register these sounds of agony and distress.

Like Nguyen and Sergeant Gabe- one of only seven of Nguyen's unit that he could positively account for anymore- the waves of the driven had abandoned the Autopista several kilometers back when joint RDF and ASC air cover had finally collapsed entirely leaving the choked roadway completely exposed as an inviting target to Zentraedi Fighter Pods who had quickly begun taking advantage of the opportunity.

Nguyen had ordered the engineers in his vehicle, and those around him to abandon the road within moments of seeing a plasma-napalm strike against the roadway in their path close enough to feel the blistering heat of the artificial fire and to witness the sublimation of cars, trucks, and all of their occupants.

Nguyen's order had been at best only approval after the fact of an action already in progress.

That order had been the last of any real meaning- the situation was far beyond that now.

Roughly twenty engineers had left their gridlocked vehicles in conjunction with Nguyen's orders, and by the time the lieutenant had penetrated the jungle to this depth he found himself followed by only eight.

"Leadership" had been reduced in the span of a minute to leading anyone capable of following to the east- or in some cases, keeping up with them.

Military personnel, both superior and subordinate were all around, certainly, but all were being carried by the same invisible current toward the sea.

The situation ruled the day now, and only its imperatives had any authority.

Nguyen's last witnessing of the semblance of any resistance to the Zentraedi had been a rearward glance as had fled into the jungle. Some thirty meters in, where the tropical growth was just becoming thick enough to veil the chaos being left behind, he had looked back long enough to see through the opening of trees the lower body of a sole Gen-1 Raidar-X, halt in its retreat east and turn to again face west. In turning, it crushed beneath its massive weight a battered civilian mini-van that had at the time that Nguyen had passed it contained what could have been three generations of a family too petrified by their surroundings to conceive of leaving their gridlocked vehicle.

The rapid and distinctive crack of the Raidar-X's lasers firing mingled with the chorus of mayhem as the air above ripped with the thunder of Gnerl pulse jets.

At that point, a knobby protrusion of tree root had seized the toe of Nguyen's right boot, pulling him down and hurling him over a small rise into a deeper depression in the jungle floor. An explosion that was more felt than heard had been right at his heels as he'd been sent tumbling, and only by his fall had the blast of dragon's breath not engulfed him.

When Nguyen had emerged still in flight from the depression, a wall of smoke from incinerated metal and vegetation was billowing toward him- masking mercifully the foundational act of destruction that had caused it.

 _"Oh Jesus, forgive us for this day!.._ "

Nguyen had recognized the voice instantly, but had to visually confirm that the words had indeed come from Sergeant Gabe who either by coincidence or intent had also found himself in the depression in the jungle floor.

As the wall of smoke overtook the lieutenant and his sergeant they were again on the move. It was in this thickening air that they had come across the seven enlisted of Nguyen's twenty that had left the Autopista de Sur. The rallying was completely coincidental, but it allowed the group to move under some false sense of safety in numbers.

" _We gotta keep goin', Lieutenant!"_ , Gabe hollered into Nguyen's ear, possibly for the third or fourth time before it registered, " _It can't be far!"_

"-It can't be far-.", Nguyen muttered back, affirming to Gabe and his engineers that he was still in the game and would take them the final distance to sanctuary.

 _"It"-_ sanctuary, was an easy concept to envision and cling to- a solid destination to move toward. At times, they had all seen it and been there when "it" had not been sanctuary, but simply the ports that served the JMZ.

They were there, and were regularly filled at every slip and every berth with ships and boats of all sizes and configurations that could carry out to sea any who could reach them.

Carry them out to sea away from-.

The threat being retreated from was not allowing itself to be forgotten because the carnage of the Autopista de Sur could no longer be beheld.

Behind, to the west, the emanating tremors of mechanized footstep could be felt and could be felt growing stronger with proximity. The crunch of metal under the feet of Zentraedi mecha could be heard, as could the splintering crack of trees breaking before mecha bodies. The report of energy weapons firing relentlessly began to rise over the crackle of fire in the jungle, and the periodic hiss of an energy bolt passing overhead reasserted the reality of the danger.

Escape was ahead, to the east with only the dip and rise of the jungle floor an obstacle.

 _One more hill… A dozen more hills… A thousand more hills…_

It did not matter, Sanctuary was a place and it was ahead.

Sergeant Gabe, with his stocky frame that suggested that he should be slower on his feet than Nguyen, had somehow managed to pull ahead and hold the length of at least a dozen running strides over his lieutenant. Even as geography asserted its last bit of cruelty in making the final ten meters of the hill a seemingly impossible incline, Gabe maintained his lead- scrambling like a woodland creature on all fours in the company of dozens of others clawing for the summit in the same fashion.

Nguyen was certain that he had lost Gabe as the sergeant vanished over the top of the hill that the lieutenant had ascended only mid-way.

Nguyen found himself fighting his own failing limbs as much as the last three meters of the hill. Holes gouged into the rich jungle earth by hands and feet preceding Nguyen's that should have offered ideal purchase seemed to crumble under his ever-increasing weight, while tree roots that did hold fast for his hands seemed to demand payment in return by snagging his leaden feet only moments later.

It was at the crest of the hill when Nguyen's strength was on the cusp of deserting him entirely that the trees opened inexplicably, and that the lieutenant found a blockage that was inconceivable given the situation.

Sergeant Gabe had joined the uneven rear ranks of a growing mass on the leeward side of the hill. Nguyen's first impression had been that his sergeant had stopped to wait for him.

It became immediately apparent though that Nguyen's sergeant was completely oblivious to his presence, even as Nguyen's shoulder touched Gabe's as he joined him in gazing east.

No more than five kilometers distant, the Atlantic Ocean glittered all around the last tongue of land as its swells caught the descending sun on their west-facing surfaces. Near where the land surrendered to the sea, smoke was rising from La Puerta de Las Americas and its burning wharves and yards.

Mostly intact but empty, piers and ship berths could be seen continuing to accumulate mecha, vehicles, and throngs of people arriving on foot.

If ships of any kind or affiliation were to come in- these souls were at the head of the long line seeking rescue.

-If.

Looking back to the west, Lieutenant Nguyen could clearly see the pawl of black smoke that accompanied battle moving steadily toward him.

 **Yellowstone City**

Commander Anne Weitzel had been drifting between the depths and shallows of unconsciousness for she knew not how long.

Like a swimmer seized by successive riptides, she would get within reach of full consciousness only to be dragged down into the swirling murk again. Though with each rise, she did find herself closer to the light.

Each time her mind functioned just a little more, the pieces awakening and the connections reasserting themselves.

She knew that she had tried to speak.

There were important things to be communicated- she knew that much.

The thick, syrupy sounds that had escaped her lips though did not even remotely resemble the form of words. Even in the haze that she could not emerge from, she was aware of that.

For that matter, no sounds that she was aware of around her had made much if any sense. She could distinguish voices from other sounds, and knew that the voices carried with them words. The meaning of those words would not come to her though, and Weitzel quickly grew frustrated with trying and tired from the attempt.

She had drifted off.

Weitzel became aware of that too after the fact, and had a foggy recollection of her last failed bout with near-consciousness. She remembered vaguely the struggle to communicate, and that it had been important to do so.

It demanded another attempt.

Voices were still not making sense, but sounds that repeated, and smells that lingered were easier to work on with a sluggish cognitive process.

The clues that she was in a hospital gelled at once- the smells of antiseptic and sterile plastics fitting suddenly with the rhythmic beep that was an EKG monitor of Weitzel's own heart.

Weitzel was no stranger to hospitals, surgery, or its after-effects as she had as a teen gymnast undergone surgery to repair the shattered tibia and fibula in her left leg with steel rods after ungracefully dismounting a balance beam during competition.

Building upon this foundation, she was able to recognize the grogginess and mild nausea she realized she was feeling as her body coming out from under sedation.

What was different this time from her teenage experience was that the pain was not localized to any one part of her body. She felt the throbbing of drug-blunted pain radiating from almost every region that she knew a name for.

It was worst in her right leg though- a pronounced burning and tingling that started mid-thigh and became more pronounced further down.

Unlike her left leg where movement of her toes and foot rewarded her with stabs of sharp pain that penetrated the prescribed numbing agents, her right toes would not answer at all.

Weitzel heard the rate of her heartbeat increase in the beep of the EKG- giving voice to the panic she suddenly felt and the unwillingness to open her eyes and confirm a suspicion she dreaded realizing.

She did not want to open her eyes, but forced the leaden lids up enough to peak in the way that children risked a quick glimpse from under the covers into the darkness to find out whether or not the boogeyman was really lurking at the foot of their bed.

Beneath the loose draping of a hospital blanket, Weitzel could follow the contours of her left leg up to the clear protrusion of her left foot.

Her right leg made for a perfect matching set until it reached the knee where the blanket settled in loose folds to the level of the mattress.

Weitzel felt a shudder run through her body that escaped her as a shrill lamentation that might have been trying to assume the character of the word – _no._

The irrational urge to flee hit Weitzel solidly and she made every effort to fling herself from the bed. Muscles either failed to respond or answered out of order and she managed only to thrash with her arms, nearly pulling the intravenous tubes from catheters taped to both forearms.

Strong hands were suddenly on her and were surprisingly gentle in their persuasion to remain in bed.

"Commander Weitzel, relax- you're safe-."

The voice was a man's- a stranger's- but somehow comforting in its tone and volume.

Weitzel found that her eyes would not stay open despite her best efforts, but in glimpses of the world around her she became aware that while her surroundings had all of the trappings of a hospital, she was not in a proper hospital building. She also became aware of more people gathering around her and attending to her.

There was soft tugging on the IV tubes in her right arm as an unseen person manipulated them and as the velvety sensation of a mild sedative spread through her body, Weitzel understood distantly that chemicals had been applied to calm her- the pharmaceutical version of a bedside manner.

"- _You cut off my leg-._ "

Even in a dazed state, Weitzel realized that the words had come across more harshly and accusative than she might have otherwise wanted- but she was communicating at least.

"Ma'am, your leg was badly crushed.", said the male voice, "It would have been a long shot to save it in fully equipped and staffed hospital facility- and we're _not_ fully equipped _or_ staffed. You're one of the lucky ones- you're alive."

Weitzel could feel that her body had only so much energy available to it, and that the energy was quickly draining. She felt herself being drawn to focus on the stump where her right leg should have continued in the way that a child would obsess on blood and the sting of a scraped knee- it was the natural reaction.

She groped deep within looking for that trait that had served her so well for so long- the ability to rise above what others might find impossible and to press on.

It was more of a struggle right now, but Weitzel still could feel that defiance within herself. She broke through and found focus beyond her disfigurement. There would be a time to deal with that later.

"-I need to speak to Ephraim.", Weitzel managed to get out, hearing in the process that her voice jittered and jumped as though she had been immersed in ice water.

"Who?"

It was a herculean effort to open her eyes again, but Weitzel managed to do so- making every effort to look everywhere and at everything except the lower half of her own body.

Highly trained and rigorously exercised regions of Weitzel's mind were beginning to work again and get traction. They registered data elements captured by her senses of sight, hearing, and smell- began to collate, and then assemble the pieces.

The wall behind the head of what she found to be a cot approximation of a hospital bed was not even a wall in the traditional sense. Ribs of grey, inflated rubber ran vertically, arching to form the bowed ceiling of the room before descending in the same curve to the floor on the opposite side of the chamber.

Aluminum frames supporting LED light fixtures as well as bundles of electrical cables stood within the arch of the chamber, though clearly bore none of the structure's load.

At least a dozen other beds occupied the room, all with occupants who were bandaged to one degree or another and inert if not unconscious.

The clues quickly yielded the only sensible answer to Weitzel- _field hospital._

Where the chamber joined another, or possibly an inflatable corridor, Weitzel could see blurry human forms passing by the curtain-door of heavy, translucent plastic.

The embodiment of the voice with whom she had been speaking sat on an aluminum frame stool by her bedside, strangely wearing the dark blue utility slacks and shirt of civilian emergency services- _not_ the garb of military medical personnel.

"You're not a doctor?", Weitzel asked, clearly surprising the athletically-built man in his mid-twenties.

"No-. EMT…", said the civil servant, rubbing his bloodshot eyes whose dark circles were substantial enough to make him look as though he'd been in a fight. "They were short on staff here, so I'm doing a turn as orderly and nurse before they send me out into the city again. –I even lent a spare hand in two surgeries-. …Something for the resume´, I guess…."

"I need to speak to Ephraim…. Brigadier General Shiloah….", Weitzel said, feeling her head clear slightly as her mind began to work at assessing and prioritizing. She made an effort to raise herself slightly, expecting to look over to the next bed to find her friend and superior.

With a groan and a surge of sharp pain all throughout her body, Weitzel failed and settled limp into the cushion pad of the cot again.

Apparently the EMT had not been the only one who had lost a fight recently.

"-He was the officer who must have come in about the same time I did. About my height…. Short, curly grey hair…"

The EMT shook his head, saying, "I don't know-. I didn't see you come in and we've got _a lot_ of injured here. I can ask around at least-."

"Do that.", Weitzel said, her officer's persona making a resurgence, "And I had a bag with me-. It contained external memory drives. You need to see if that was brought in as well. Once that's found, I'm going to need coms- an uplink to Fleet-."

The EMT laughed irreverently- not an intentional slight, but rather a reaction of utter disbelief.

"Lady, are you _fucking kidding?.._ We're scrounging for working radios to communicate _across town_. The city is crawling with Zentraedi, so I'm not even sure we _have_ a fleet anymore. –And even if we do, and even if we had the ability to reach out to them, the doctors wouldn't let you leave that bed to try to call them."

Of course, only part of Weitzel's demands had been about performing her duty.

It had also been a fight to leap over _coping_. –Coping with the loss of her leg, coping with the loss of order and sanity, coping with the loss of the world that had been firm reality when she had lost consciousness in the collapsing hallway outside of Ephraim's office.

Structure crumbled around her.

Weitzel caught a last glimpse of the bulge of a single foot beneath her blankets before she let her head drop to her pillow again and allowed her eyelids slam shut. A profusion of tears that she had not expected ran hotly down her cheeks and wetted her hair at her temples.

The EMT's voice was wearily apologetic in the darkness.

"-Hey, sorry.. I… Look, I'll see what I can find out for you before I have to go out again. I just meant to say that you're not in any condition to go off fighting the war right now. Just stay put, and I'll see what I can find out- okay?"

Weitzel nodded, succeeding in holding in the sobs she was fighting a losing battle to restrain.

She felt the EMT leave her bedside and heard the movement of the heavy plastic curtains that separated this inflatable hospital ward from whatever it was connected to.

Weitzel allowed a whimper to carry out on a shaky, exhaled breath- nothing that would be heard beyond this chamber.

Somewhere in the room she heard a body shift its weight in a nearby bed and reply with a whimper of its own- perhaps a sympathetic sound.

Perhaps it was only the sound of someone else grappling with their own nightmares.

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

Shadows were beginning to stretch to distortion away from the objects casting them as Winters drew _Marilyn_ 's throttles back to a mere idle in the slot he had been directed to on the tarmac. Once in place, the pilot keyed the auto-shutdown sequence, taking the Valkyrie's plasma reaction engines down completely.

A-Flight in its entirety was pulling in line off of the squadron leader's right wing with a ship's wingspan space between them to prevent the loss of all to a chain explosion should a surprise attack take place.

Winters barely had his helmet off, air, life support, and electronics interface lines disconnected from his suit before Lyle was at the top of a ladder he'd pushed into place at the cockpit's side and was inserting the safety pin back into the fighter's ejection seat.

Both men were working to release the pilot from the snug, five-point embrace of his seat harnesses when the ordinance crews swept the tarmac to safety missiles that were still secured to the rails of the fighters' drooping wings.

Despite a patrol of four hours and with the enemy in great abundance well within striking range- not a single weapon had been fired for reasons of ROE on the Valkyrie pilots' side. What was preventing the Zentraedi from engaging was a greater mystery to Winters as he had witnessed several incidents of provocation from the RDF side- complements of the Army- that had cost the Zentraedi the lives of several hundred of their warriors.

It was a curious period of restraint on both sides, and one that Winters knew would cease with spectacular violence as all of the tension and fury being accumulated was released.

There were clues that the moment Winters was predicting internally was not a distant one.

Ordinance trucks, heavily laden with deadly loads stood just as far back from the tarmac as regulation demanded during combat operations and probably not a centimeter more. The nervous glances of flight line safety officers spoke volumes in confirming the trucks were indeed carrying the cargo for which they were intended, and not there as some kind of bluff or diversion to distract an enemy who might have eyes on the area.

Lift carts stood by in abundance, ready to move weapons to waiting aircraft at a moment's notice when the call came.

 _Marilyn_ and the rest of Knight Hawk Squadron's A-Flight would be disarmed first though- even as the potential for sudden action loomed.

They were out of the immediate cycle for fast response, and as such ever-present regulations demanded that they not stand idle with a full weapons load.

There were indications of _multiple_ plans on the cusp of execution all over Edwards. Winters had seen the evidence in parts from the air and in rolling across the runway apron to return to the fighter hangar complex.

Adventurer II squadrons, having suffered moderate damage to several aircraft and no losses despite an entire day's relentless combat sorites were now being armed again with the tools for ground attack.

EA-9D EW/ES variants were being no less laden than their A-9C ground attack siblings, only theirs were loads that were not intended to leave the aircrafts' hard points. Jammer and directed energy countermeasure pods capable of setting the Mojave aglow with electromagnetic energy were undergoing final checks for functionality by the flight crews themselves. Like the "walk around" that fighter pilots were accustomed to performing, the Adventurer crews were readying themselves to do the business for which they were trained.

A less common sight by virtue of their numbers rather than their presence at Edwards were the UAVs and UCAVs which in their entirety occupied a tarmac and hangar area themselves. Winters had witnessed their preparation and in the case of the UCAVs, their arming, with a modicum of both respect and pity. Though a valued asset, these warrior automatons had the unique distinction amongst the RDF combatants of being remorselessly expendable at a commander's whim.

Reflective of considerations made for the combatants who were not deemed expendable, the preparations of SAR crews and their helicopters were also in progress. These pre-flight activities were concealed somewhat though, as much as possible from the sight of those whom they would rescue if the call should come.

They were angels of mercy- but also reminders of what _could be._

Winters expected that the call would come for someone- and God bless SAR for the sake of that unlucky bastard.

-But like all fighter pilots, Winters was certain it wouldn't be him.

"Fish ain't bitin' today, eh?..", Lyle asked as he helped Winters extract himself from the confines of the Valkyrie cockpit.

Winters could not hear over the general noise of the flight line but rather felt the pop of joints and of his spine as they were given room to move and employed the full range of motion that the cockpit had denied for hours.

A dull but persistent ache gave his body a second pulse beyond that of his heart. It was the lingering physical after-effects of the previous night's action and repeated exposure to high G-forces.

Like a hangover followed alcohol, when the flood of endorphins and adrenaline slackened and then dissipated- the bill came due.

Winters had once likened the sensation to coming out on the wrong side of a prolonged bar brawl. Dalton, having been party to the conversation explaining the "down side" of a fighter pilot's existence to some bright-eyed glory seeker barely old enough to shave had refined Winters' description by pointing out that even the best brawler could only punch and kick you in so many places.

Sir Isaac Newton was more gifted in an even distribution of punishment.

"Not a nibble.", Winters replied as he followed the plane captain down the ladder gingerly, aware of every muscle in his legs and lower back, "I get the feeling there's something tastier to the southeast."

"And a feedin' frenzy going on there.", Lyle replied having a cigarette he'd lit swiftly in the corner of his mouth ready for the squadron leader before he was aware that he wanted one.

Even with the breeze over the tarmac and the various smells of equipment and activity around him, Winters could smell the pervasive odor of cigarette smoke sweated from the senior NCO's pores. Lyle had been awake and in almost constant activity as long as, if not longer, than Winters or any of his pilots. It was not just the combatants relying on chemical assistance to stay sharp as they were approaching the 48-hour mark of the time since they had last slept.

Without hesitation Winters had the cigarette and was drawing deep and greedily for the needed rush. There was a hint of coffee to the taste of the smoke- a sign that someone in the hangar complex had a pot going somewhere. If he had a minute, Winters decided that might be his next pursuit before reporting in to Flight Operations to debrief.

"-You've heard news?", Winters asked, responding to Lyle's vague reference to battle somewhere outside of the AOR.

"Bits `n pieces.", Lyle said, lighting a cigarette for himself as he and the pilot wove around and through the movement of ordinance crews headed for A-Flight's Valkyries.

"Bastards're rollin' right over anythang in their path, sounds like."

Winters shook his head dismissively, responding to the news as he might have responded to Lyle reporting that the sun was expected rise again the next morning.

"No surprise in that. If you took all the armor we have in California and combine it, you might get a couple of divisions. The dittos are moving an army at speed. We've got no density like that north of Guatemala- _maybe._ "

"Well, Ah figure someone's thanking `bout havin' it out b'fore they getyt that far.", Lyle said looking at the destructive force massing around him, "Word `round the campfire is that the Southern Cross is plannin' on goin' head-to-head with `em, and asking for our support-. Operational Initiative Gemini- y'might'a heard of it-."

"Sounds vaguely familiar.", Winters grumbled darkly, "-Zentraedi versus the Southern Cross-. It's going to be hard to know who to root for. I suppose I should go with the home team, but I'm not quite feeling it yet."

"Who're ya less fond of?", Lyle said, coaxing Winters in the "right" direction of thought.

"Jury's still out.", Winters replied, steadfast in his disdain, "Is Freddy around?"

"Talkin' ta Colonel Mumuni, last Ah seen `im.", Lyle said, "She wanted me ta send ya her way when Ah saw ya. Y'all got a briefin' in `bout thirty minutes or so."

A finger of irritation jabbed Winters, "You might have wanted to have led off with that one, Lyle."

"`N miss a chance to converse?"

Winters tossed away the cigarette which had quickly burned down to the filter with his assistance. The rest of A-Flight was in trail now and closing having put eyes on their commanding officer.

"Priorities, Lyle- _priorities._ "

The walk to the pre-flight building that was "home" to Knight Hawk Squadron was not a long one, but one abnormally rich with obstacles and moving hazards this day. Rather than taking the shortest route between points that would have moved the whole company of A-Flight through a maintenance hangar, the pilots without a word deciding it opted to cut around the rear of the cavernous structure.

The walk would not have normally been necessary as under standard operating procedures the flight returning from patrol would have been routed back to their HAS structures for post-flight disarming and turn-around.

Today however, additional squadrons were in the rotation for flight operations which necessitated accommodating Valkyries not part of 623rd Squadron in the nest normally reserved for Knight Hawks.

The guests of necessity would move out before long, and birds familiar to those roosts of reinforced concrete would come home again.

The walk did allow more time to stretch and indulge in another cigarette though.

"So, did Lyle have anything meaningful to say?", Vincenz asked as some of the noise of the flight line was dampened by the hangar behind which A-Flight was passing.

"Lyle _always_ has something meaningful to say-.", Winters replied without reservation, adding the caveat, "-You just need to translate it from _Lyle_ to _English_."

"Well, as you've already done the heavy lifting-?.."

"Haven't a clue.", Winters said, "Though keep your schedule open for later- we might have a fight in our future."

"Think I can wedge it in between my charity work and dinner with Miss California?"

"Tell her you might be a little late.", Winters advised, "Will she mind?"

"No- but _I_ might."

"Well, we're all subject to requirements of the Service-.", Winters reminded his wingman.

"-So does this mean that the civilians _aren't_ leaving?"

The question had come from Captain Pete "Dodger" Lindsey who was toward the rear of the migrating flight by chance rather than any hierarchal order of rank.

Winters understood the junior pilot's concern.

An attractive Asian girlfriend whose name the squadron leader had learned once in a quick exchange with Lindsey and had forgotten just as quickly had appeared some three or four months before. Whether things were getting "serious", or if the anonymous young woman who appeared with Lindsey from time to time at Roxanne's establishment was just who the pilot had to cling to in these times- Lindsey's question doubtlessly connected back to her.

"Haven't a clue, Dodger.", Winters said with a note of exasperation, "I've been on the same patrol as you. I imagine they'll move the civilians out as soon as they're certain that they won't come under fire out in the open-. Though I can't imagine keeping them on post is any safer-."

"It just makes sense that if we're gonna move them we can't dedicate all of our squadrons to attacking the dittos- and it sounds like that's going down soon-."

Winters stopped at the corner of the hanger beyond which lay the HAS structures and preflight building that were home, half-turned to glare at Lindsey, and snapped, "What part of _I don't know_ wasn't clear?"

Lindsey, always able to find a dozen sides to any two-sided issue was visibly taken aback mildly.

"Sorry-. Just couldn't think it through-."

Winters suddenly remembered that Rio was part of the civilian population that had suddenly found itself "behind enemy lines" today. A deep-seated pang of concern over this let the squadron leader know that he had been too short with Lindsey over a matter of legitimate worry.

Winters had no answers though.

"I warned you about thinking. You could spread the condition if you're not cautious."

Leaving the paved footpath behind the maintenance hangar for another expanse of concrete tarmac, Winters could see through other Valkyries of adopted squadrons the fighters of B-Flight still "tucked in" within their HAS buildings.

Whether it was Lindsey's prattling moments before or just his own mind at work, Winters wondered if maybe the briefing Lyle had alluded to wasn't to lay out the particulars of using the aircraft now being armed to cover the movement of civilians and that the balance of air and ground forces at Edwards would remain in a guarding capacity.

Seeing flaws in this plan immediately, Winters shook the speculative effort off altogether. There was no need in guessing at what he would be told to him shortly.

Around the time that A-Flight had passed through the staggered line of visiting Valkyries on the tarmac and could see the door of the preflight building, the door came open with urgent speed to allow Dalton and Phillips to spill out at a jog.

His first thought being that there was some emergency, Winters was two steps into building to a run to meet them when something in Dalton's expression told him to hold his ground.

Winters concern intensified as Dalton gave him the "wave-off" gesture as he approached.

"Jack-. Best if you don't go in there", Dalton said coming to a stop just short of where A-Flight had halted on the tarmac, the concern having spread quickly through the other pilots.

"What's wrong?", Winters asked, sounding more the part of a commanding officer requiring information than a man trying to make sense of a warning.

"Everybody's in there-.", Major "Scooter" Phillips said.

"Everybody _who?_ ", Winters asked, legitimately puzzled by the vague warning from Phillips.

" _Everybody_ as in our families-.", Dalton explained, and then added separately to emphasize that the point of tension was what followed, "-Including Catherine and the baby-."

Winters stomach dropped so that he was sure that he heard it plop onto the concrete. If he was being warned to stay away by Dalton, then there was a good reason and it almost certainly had to do with Gecko's newly widowed wife.

" _Well, what the hell are they doing here, Freddy?!_ "

"They got on post with about a thousand other people with military ID, Jack!", Dalton shot back while minding that he technically was speaking to a superior, "Civilian broadcasting was spotty at best, Edwards City was dark, and the base was closer-."

"-And base security just let them walk in?"

Dalton gestured unexpectedly to Major Bruce from Witners' flight, "It's fucked up, Cisco's second cousin was working the gate and wasn't going to turn Pam or the kids around to go to a civilian shelter He let `em in-. What do you want me to say?"

Bruce's jaw slackened slightly as though he'd taken an unexpected right cross to it, but managed to stammer, " _Roddy?- You stupid son-of-a-bitch…."_

Winters spoke around Bruce as though his voice had not been heard, "So who told Catherine?"

"She went right to Rebound and cornered him when she saw Gecko wasn't around.", Dalton explained, "I was out in HAS-4 getting a post-flight check report from Lyle when they showed up, Jack- I didn't even know it was going down until it was over. I mean, _Jesus_ \- what was Rebound supposed to do?"

Winters shook his head in resignation.

All of the official and required activities that had followed the previous night's engagement in which Captain Alan "Gecko" Home had lost his life defending his world, while non-negotiable in their exercise, seemed a very frail excuse for not doing what decency had demanded.

"He did-..", Winters conceded, "-exactly what _I should have done_ , Freddy. – _I_ should have done it."

Dalton's next words sounded of pure warning, dire and sincere, "Well, I don't think this is the time-."

Whether all in the group of pilots on the tarmac sensed the impending danger simultaneously, or if it was one and his sensing it spread rapidly to the others- it did not matter. All were suddenly aware that malevolence was bearing down on them rapidly from the direction of the open doors of the nearest HAS.

" _YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!_ "

Catherine Home, all 50 Kg of her, passed at a full run without interference through the outer ring of pilots around Winters before they could react and made contact with the squadron leader behind a clenched fist.

The shock of the assault more than the physical collision sent Winters staggering backwards, arms pinwheeling for balance as a successive barrage of blows were landed on his chest and to his face at a rate that rivaled some professional fighters.

The lieutenant colonel finally lost the battle for equilibrium on the retreat and hit the tarmac with a heavy grunt only to have the assault of fists replaced by feet as Catherine Home's rage coalesced into a blur of aggression and obscenity.

" _BASTARDFUCKINGSONOFABITCH!-YOU KILLED HIM!"_

A sneaker-clad foot flattened Winters' nose into his upper lip, filling his vision with stars and his sense of taste with the salty splash of blood as he tried to roll out in the opposite direction to escape.

There were feet and bodies in motion all around him- far too many to be just A-Flight, Dalton, and Phillips. Female voices collided with and overlapped the voices of Winters' pilots- wives and girlfriends who were desperately trying to separate the shrieking Catherine Home from the object of her wrath nearly twice her size.

Winters was able to get unsteady feet beneath him again as the bright spots of light were dissolving from his vision. To his surprise, it was the wives and girlfriends of his pilots who were keeping away the fury that the day before had been one of the most benign and unassuming souls Winters had happened across in his days.

Hands gifted in maternal and sisterly touch moved over face and body of the young woman who seemed as though she would shake out of her freckled skin, taking turns stroking her hair and embracing her through a ceaseless wash of consoling words.

For every consolatory act of tenderness and empathy though, an equally caustic glare was cast in turn toward Winters.

The pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron kept their distance wisely, no more trying or able to enter the circle of bereavement created by their spouses and significant others than the women were able to enter the world that was theirs.

Men of split-second decision making and action stood helplessly by as Catherine Home was coaxed and gently ushered back toward the preflight building that was now clearly theirs until they were ready to surrender it.

The mourning procession was not at the door yet when Linda Dalton stiffened in their midst, half-cocked her head as if to a calling unheard by anyone else on the tarmac, and turned sharply to return toward the pilots in a determined gait. Her husband put out a hand to intercept her, or possibly deflect some of what he knew had to be coming next- but Linda smacked it away and closed head-on toward Winters, stopping just outside of the range at which she too might be tempted to strike him.

Strangely, when she spoke it was in Winters' direction, but she was speaking _through_ him, _around_ him and in doing so to all the pilots of the squadron.

"Go on now and do what _you have to do_ , but you let this set deep and hold fast. You're not just watching out for _each other_ when you're up there. –Just remember, _there are consequences._ "

Linda Dalton's eyes locked on Winters in what he expected would be the disdainful way in which they had so many times before.

Her glare was different now though- worse.

There were no longer signs of contempt that a person might feel for another. It had devolved into unapologetic disgust exhibited for baser things- unfortunate and repugnant happenstances incapable of helping themselves be more than what they were.

"You're a fucking mess, Jack. –Can't even bother to know to take care of your own…", Linda said without even a hint of passion or regard as she fished a worn and faded red bandana handkerchief from her pocket and tossed it in a wad against the squadron leader's chest, "-Keep it."

Without another word Linda Dalton reversed on her heel and rushed to rejoin the wives and girlfriends who continued to hover around Catherine Home as they brought her back indoors.

Winters stooped to pick up the handkerchief and several sizable drops of blood that pattered onto the concrete reminded him as to why he needed it. A quick pass of his right palm and fingers across his lower face found his hand slick with a coating of blood.

Major Wayne from Dalton's B-Flight approached guiltily, offering a second handkerchief from the breast pocket of his flight suit as Winters quickly bloodied the one in hand.

"Jack- that's _my fault_ -. Rebound and I were trying to sit with Cathy and talk it through but when Buster saw you, she said that she had to go to the bathroom to clean up and-. Heck, she must've slipped out into the HAS through the pre-flight room. I'm sorry."

Holding the faded red handkerchief to his bleeding nose and swelling lip where it was quickly regaining some of its former color, Winters replied sullenly, "No, it's not your fault, Preacher."

"She was wrong, you know-.", Scooter said, wanting clearly to sound more convincing than he did.

"No she wasn't.", Winters said, "No, that's the damnable thing-. The dirty little secret that no one admits to. She wasn't wrong at all."

Unobligated by marriage, Vice stood in closer to his wingman and squadron leader as the other pilots closed ranks in something like the circle the wives and girlfriends had formed for Catherine Home moments before and grumbled, "Well, maybe she's got a point- but _what the fuck?.._ No one here keeps a secret from the women in their lives-. They _know_ what we do for a living and that shit can happen-."

"Yeah-.", Dalton agreed peripherally, "-But we chose that life. We forced them to choose to ride along or get the curb. It's complicated when rings are involved-. You'll see one day when you're wearing one."

Vincenz scoffed at the suggestion, "I think you just gave me another good reason _not_ to."

Winters was well into staining Preacher's handkerchief with the effort of staunching the blood flow when Linda Dalton's parting shot slammed home and penetrated.

"Freddy, what did Linda mean by I didn't know to take care of my own-. Where's Rio?"

An uneasy silence swept the squadron.

"We're not sure, Jack.", Dalton said bluntly, "Linda said that she and Roxanne left the club in Roxanne's truck with the rest of the caravan, but they split off headed toward Edwards City when everyone else headed to the base."

"-And you were going to tell me this _when?_ ", Winters snapped as his stomach began to knot in a way it normally did not outside of the cockpit.

His gaze went out past the parked Valkyries that stood idle on the tarmac in the direction of Edward City- and then pulled back to the Valkyries again.

"I was going to tell you as soon as I warned you off from the nest, but that didn't go so well-.", Dalton answered, "-And _stop thinking_ what I know you're thinking right now. You go and pull a fool stunt like that when we're on the verge of a major mission and Arnie will have you locked up in a room, and then throw away _the_ _room._ "

Winters reminded himself of the hundred reasons why if he decided to take a Valkyrie for an unauthorized jaunt into the nearby city that he would probably not make it across the outer perimeter in one piece.

Logical and concrete as his reasoning was, the reckless urge still had its appeal.

Reason prevailed though.

"They're in a civilian shelter by now Jack, or at a collection point to be relocated.", Maverick assured him, sounding genuine in his belief.

"They're fine.", Dalton seconded, "The only dittos that have come close to the base or the city are the ones that we aired out. And even if the place was crawling with `em, there are New York City subway rats that don't have half the survival instinct of Roxy or Rio. They're _fine_ \- I'm sure."

Winters forced himself to let go- _outwardly_ \- because the rational part of his mind knew that Dalton was correct. If there was anyone in The Antelope Valley who could be counted on to make it by instinct and wit, it was Roxanne and Rio.

It would be dark in only a few hours though.

 _Very_ dark on the desert.

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

The atmosphere in The Situation Room had changed since the last meeting of the heads of Government and the military.

The weight and tension of "ongoing events" (no one had yet referred to it yet as the "war") could still be sensed in all around the table, but the edge had dulled some.

Government and military representatives in the room had now had the advantage of at least several hours of sleep- substituting the nicotine and caffeine that had sustained them through the termination of their last session with genuine and much-needed rest.

How much sleep each person at the table had actually been able to indulge in varied- but what had been had, and the taking of an actual meal had clearly benefitted all.

There was also a broader representation of Government at the table at President Valterven's direction. While not all of the ministries of The United Earth Government were required for the briefings and discussions that had been hastily assembled into an agenda for the morning's meetings, it was The President's overarching conviction that all areas of the Government were affected and therefore had a legitimate seat at the table that had them there this morning.

All would have the ability to contribute as their experience and predilections guided them.

Of the additions to the gathering since the last, the most immediately noticeable was one that had been conspicuous somewhat by his absence at the initial gathering.

Appearing every bit the personification of physical age, Breetai's original counselor on all things scientific, cultural, ethical, and not linked directly to the former Imperial warlord's vast military experience, Exedore, was again at his former lord's side.

Micronization which had done little to reduce the imposing physical presence of Breetai did not serve Exedore as well. His decimation in stature had not been complimented with a similar reduction in the deep furrows of age that gave the pale green flesh of his face the appearance of a rough and broken landscape.

They eyes nestled within the innumerable creases and wrinkles were still bright and aware- keen as any at the table and perpetually drinking in with the aide of his other senses all that could be delivered for processing to his perpetually knowledge-ravenous mind.

Though his age had been determined with a high degree of accuracy through genetic testing as over four –and-a-half Terran centuries, none who had ever had the occasion to speak with the ancient Zentraedi on any matter in which he was supremely well-versed could argue even the slightest hint of senility.

It was for this vast resource of knowledge, particularly as it applied to Zentraedi history that the advisor was now resuming his long-performed role- his more recent as scientific and cultural advisor to the planning of _SDF-3_ 's expedition to the homeworld of The Robotech Masters having been made indefinitely moot.

All in The Situation Room found their seats quickly as President Valterven entered and moved in his normal, brisk, business-like manner to his place.

Valterven without voicing a word on the subject set the tone for the entire assembly of men and women spanning the functional areas required to run a world. As a silent statement of professionalism, he had appeared immaculately attired in one of his trademark, pressed, grey silk suits with hand-folded handkerchief and matching tie knotted in a perfect Full Windsor.

It was not vanity or an ostentatious display- it was a conscious effort to look the part of responsibility. A war was on now, and while decisions that were to be made had acquired an additional magnitude of weight and urgency, the _practice_ of Government would go on undeterred and unfettered.

Brigadier General Keenan, head of RDF SIGINT found himself sitting closer to MCS General Breetai than he ever had been to the senior military officer with the exception of three briefings he had personally conducted for the Military Chief of Staff. Much as Council Advisor Exedore's presence was indicative of the morning's agenda, Keenan's proximity to the MCS had much to do with a briefing from an area of SIGINT on that agenda.

SIGINT had assumed oversight of all aspects Cyber Warfare while discussions determining the scope and mandate of a formal RDF Cyber Warfare command were held. The defensive aspects of the proposed command were concise in purpose- the defense of Earth and its civilian and military UE entities from cyber threats terrestrial and extraterrestrial- but were questionable in practical need.

Current events not withstanding, projections of The United Earth's primary defense threats for the next half century had identified The Invid as the greatest danger. Being a species whose "technology" (though some argued it to be more akin to a non-organic extension of the _biological_ Invid forms) was incompatible in every way save perhaps the Protoculture fuel source sustaining it with Terran technology, The Invid were even argued by some to be a Cyber "non-threat".

In this light and in times of limited resources, the argument to maintain funding for even a limited cyber-warfare program had been difficult.

Only the agreement between budget planners and the military oracles tasked with seeing the threats of the future that "violent but limited" threats from Zentraedi and The Robotech Masters had to be considered justified the comparatively meager funds provided for defense in the cyber arena.

 _Offensively_ speaking- stronger arguments for application had been made and as the briefing about to be presented was evidence of- heard.

"I have heard rumor that they call her, _The Shark_.", General Breetai said without warning to Brigadier General Keenan, "Why is that?"

Caught off guard by the question, not so much in its asking but in the foundational knowledge of scuttlebutt within the closed community upon which the question was based, Keenan replied, "Colonel Nath has been under my command for three years now, sir-. I see her in the hallways almost daily and am briefed by her weekly in MARPA program-focused meetings. She makes her salutations, she gives her briefings and she answers questions that I have…"

"I _don't_ know if she has family, I _don't_ know what she does in her spare time- if she indulges in _spare time_ \- or if she even sleeps. She is, to the best of my knowledge, just involved with her program-. _Every_ aspect of her program."

"A pseudonym made all that more curious then, General-.", said Exedore, leaning around the bulk of his long-time comrade Breetai and speaking as Keenan was aware that he often did, as an extension of the same.

"The _shark_ , an indigenous species to Earth, as you know is an apex predator whose success in that role is due in no small part to its instinctive, primal nature. –Hardly commensurate to the intellect required to run a vanguard project in MARPA, I would argue."

Keenan hesitated before attempting to correct the powerful and razor-edged alien intellect, "Yes, Advisor- but like many human expressions and aliases for people and things around us- the name's literal quality can only be taken so far. I think you'll understand the qualities that earned her that alleged nickname in short order."

Breetai took a moment to process his subordinate's answer to him, as well as his exchange with Exedore and found that there was still a disconnect.

"Colonel Nath sounds _dedicated_ , General. You seem taken aback by that."

Keenan paused in calculation on what to say next and then said, " _Dedicated_ might be an insufficient description, sir- in many ways. Reserve your judgment. -Though for myself I'd say she's about the most frightening person I've ever met."

Breetai's reply was almost immediate and as skeptical, " _Her?-._ "

At a place at the table ring reserved for no particular functionary or person, the subject of Exedore, Keenan, and Breetai's short exchange rose abruptly to speak.

On her feet, Colonel Surt Nath's head and shoulders were not remarkably higher than they had been when she had been seated. A thick growth of pitch-black hair crowned her, pulled back and secured in a tight bun from which not a single hair had escaped nor had been left astray. Equally practical and devoid of aesthetic ornamentation as the keeping of her hair were the military issued, utility-frame eyeglasses with their black plastic frames that stood out boldly against her dark complexion common to her origins in southern India.

Behind the lenses eyes nearly as dark as the eyeglass frames whose irises were almost indistinguishable from the pupils fixed all before them in an inky, glittery hold that was nothing short of menacing.

"I am Colonel Surt Nath, commanding officer and project manager of Project Iago under the mandate umbrella of the Military Advanced Research Projects Agency, Cyber Warfare Directorate, Offensive Capabilities Division.", Nath said, her voice not powerful by any measure but it filled the chamber nonetheless. As it carried it was most notable in the near-automated pacing of her words as though Nath spoke to an invisible metronome set for fast measure.

It was more than the mechanical mimicry of her voice that was immediately if not subtly jarring to the audience. There was little if any inflection or character to her words that suggested ethic or even _human_ affiliation. Her words flowed like a stream of informational output generated by processors of the highest order and efficiency.

"Project Iago, is so named for the closest lieutenant to the Moorish general, Othello, in the play of the same name."

"Iago itself is a cyber-based force reducer, using selected sets of computer viruses, Trojan horses, worms, and logic bombs that we customize into what we refer to simply as _modules_ that when introduced into the Zentraedi information systems architecture will attack enemy information and software-driven systems at the levels we predetermine."

President Valterven, having received a thumbnail pre-brief of the material Nath was to cover in detail from Breetai who had in turn been given a quick synopsis by Keenan was clearly prepared with general questions that had come from what could not have been more than a several-minute presentation by the MCS.

"Colonel, please elaborate on the _levels_ you're alluding to."

Though her countenance remained predominantly unchanged, which was to say completely null in expression, there was a _hint_ \- a momentary flutter- of annoyance on Nath's face at being interrupted for a question that would be addressed in its proper sequential place in the serial reporting of her presentation.

Military training maintaining their governance of Nath, or perhaps just her own unwillingness to apply the energy required to show her indignation at the needless interruption, she continued much as though the President had not interjected with the question at all.

"We have the ability to adversely affecting enemy software-driven systems ranging from the strategically significant, automated manufacturing processes that are the primary purpose of The Robotech Factories down to the tactically-relevant sensor and control systems of individual warships, vehicles, mecha, and field equipment."

"True to the character from the play, Iago, when it has been released into the enemy infrastructure wreaks maximum havoc by taking the very resources that hold the enemy's highest confidence and upon which they are most dependants and turning those assets against them."

"Iago is a high-gain, moderate risk cyber warfare asset that has undergone extensive and rigorous testing in simulation and controlled environments, and continues to be refined for deployment at the direction of the command authority."

Nath returned to a seated position, set her hands down on the table before her folded into one another, and before any at the table could interrupt again by way of inquiry, said.-

"I am now to answer your questions regarding Project Iago."

President Valterven, aware if not swayed in action by his earlier question that had caused a minor ruffle with its prematurity was quick to pursue the thoughts that Nath's brief presentation had provoked in him.

"Colonel, you claim that _Iago_ has the ability to adversely affect enemy computer-based systems at all levels. I am still unclear as to what is meant by _adversely_. Please expand upon this."

For a moment, Nath could be seen calculating the appropriate level of and collating her response. It was clear that she was prepared to speak extensively on the subject, but better if not pejorative judgment guided her words.

"The question, Mr. President, is what would you like Iago to do?"

"As I said, Iago can be scaled and customized for the desired effect. At the strategic level- the manufacturing of war material by The Robotech Factories for the enemy- we can introduce innumerable, random flaws in production. We can introduce a combination of random _and_ specific flaws if that is the desired effect. We can even go so far as to shut production down altogether- denying the enemy of one of their most constant, foundational capabilities."

Admiral MacManus, commander of the GS-95 and its multitude of operations was quick to challenge Nath on elements in her explanation that had struck him as contrary to his perception.

"Colonel, while we will assume that Iago can, as you state, introduce flaws into the war material produced for the Zentraedi by The Robotech Factories, it is also a fact that any Robotech Factory also possesses an enormous stockpile of material that is simply warehoused for immediate resupply of units in port. The enormous volume of material that these Te'Dak Tohl would have to consume before getting tainted goods into circulation would limit the immediate and mid-term value of the effort."

Logical, cause-and-effect thinking being Nath's nature, she was prepared with her response before MacManus had finished voicing what he found to be a flaw in her premise. Like a spider glad to find a fly in its snare, Nath descended on the ranking officer.

"Admiral, I was speaking in a narrow sense to the potential impact of Iago on the _manufacturing_ aspects of the enemy war-making capacity. Provisions have been made to similarly reduce the viability of and enemy confidence in the standing material stockpiles."

"As you are aware, the distributed complex of Robotech Factories throughout the galaxies is designed to offer refuge and support to Zentraedi units in a timely manner, regardless of their location. Their function understands that they must have the _ability_ to support at a moment's notice with a high volume of ready-use war material and the _ability_ to independently resupply those stockpiles."

"It is also understood in the design of The Robotech Factories that there may be great time intervals between when these abilities are actually called upon by the Zentraedi. It can be in the order of decades or longer. It is believed that since their construction, that there are some Factories that have _never_ been called upon to actively support Zentraedi or Robotech Master forces."

"In those great time intervals, even with the most careful storage practices, time has its effect. Fuel cells for vehicles or mecha deteriorate in viability. The chemical composition of explosives in missile warheads, or the composition of their fuel breaks down."

"The Factories regularly and routinely perform automated checks on stockpiles of vehicles and weapons. Through this interface, the software of these weapon and vehicle systems can be infected with either immediately manifesting flaws, or sabotaged to react to a triggering action by use of logic bombs."

"Iago is an active, offensive system in every aspect to which cyber-warfare can be applied. We have recognized the capability gap you touched upon, Admiral and have addressed it."

Likely unaware of ruffles caused to Nath by the questioning of perceived incongruities in thought, Council Advisor Exedore eagerly joined the intellectual melee building in the chamber.

"Very astute, Colonel, and well-thought- however The Robotech Factories do possess a measure of protection against just the sort of tampering that you are describing. In addition to performing routine internal assessments of not only their material stockpiles, they also perform checks on their own information system processes using a collaborative, cross-referencing checks of common systems between _multiple_ Factories. In essence, a _majority rules_ audit is performed and anomalies corrected."

Nath gave small indications of approval, or at least did not show signs of disapproval at the point voiced by a kindred spirit.

"Advisor, all that you said is accurate and true- however the deployment of Iago is not simply the introduction of malware into the enemy's information system infrastructure, it is a phased approach. The first phase of any deployment of Iago is the introduction of a _root kit_ to the enemy systems. As you are likely aware, though some at the table may not be- a root kit creates a hidden directory, or in the case of Iago, a hidden virtual machine within the enemy computer architecture that provides for the clandestine implementation of the following phases of attack."

"We create a secret and unseen base from which Iago does its work. The Factories, once they are infected will continue to perform their collaborative audits, but because of the root kit and several other elements of Iago that will be in place at that time- they will be collaborating only with _themselves_. Naturally, the results of the audits will come back clean when compared to a corrupted database and system scans of their own networks that they will believe to be control images from _other_ Factories."

"We have anticipated this problem and addressed it."

"In a similar manner, Iago can also achieve a disruption of the communication network created between The Robotech Factories and afforded to remotely positioned Zentraedi units. We can monitor, alter, reduce, or even halt all communications between Factories. We have anticipated that need and can tap in as we see fit."

No more animated, but with a fractional increase in the perceivable ease with which she spoke, Nath continued as though resuming her initial briefing.

"These are the high level, broad strokes of Iago's capabilities that would affect the enemy at the strategic level."

"At the operational and tactical levels, Iago is no less capable or debilitating."

"Iago has the ability to corrupt the systems of Zentraedi warships, forcing their removal from service or at least reducing them to operational and combat ineffectiveness. Iago can corrupt and skew the algorithms central to stellar navigation and spacefold computation. Iago can in the same way introduce random and changing error into sensor and fire control systems, rendering them ineffective."

"Iago can also deliver comparable force reduction in the active battlespace at a unit level. Flight and mobility controls of vehicles and mecha can be corrupted. Missiles can be infected with flaws in their homing and guidance systems, or simply be triggered by logic bombs to detonate upon firing or even while in a ship's magazine."

"We have anticipated virtually innumerable scenarios and applications for Iago and addressed them to varying degrees."

Awash and visibly intrigued by the revelation of vast possibilities, President Valterven applied the rigor of healthy skepticism as he inserted himself into Nath's monologue on Iago's potential.

"Colonel- on face value, it would appear that you have provided us with not a single silver bullet, but a case of them."

"However, _I_ am a statesman and politician by profession, so I know that few things are in reality what they appear to be in advertisement."

"Am I to believe that The Robotech Masters, in their dependency on the Zentraedi for both defense from The Invid and expansion of their empire allowed such an egregious gap in the protection of the technological foundation on which that defense and expansion is based? It strains credibility."

Nath's reply was almost instantaneous- sharp, but not insubordinate.

"General Breetai may have input on this security vulnerability ignored by The Robotech Masters, Mr. President."

"The Robotech Factory support and manufacturing complex _does_ possess a measure systemic security. Much like a turtle, it has a hard shell with few access points. Beyond that, there is some layered security. Technological and cryptographic authentication is present, as is the unique biometric authentication aspect that The Factories can recognize and will only respond to commands of Tirolians or Zentraedi based on bio-recognition systems aboard those facilities. All other organisms are eliminated or repelled by automated defenses."

"This is the shell."

"Like a turtle though, once the shell has been penetrated successfully, there is little defense from what internal damage can be done."

"The defensive countermeasure chiefly replied upon by The Masters to defend their information and computer infrastructures has little to do with cyber-warfare at all. The defense is predicated on two basic assumptions-."

"The first is that potential adversaries will either possess no compatible IT capabilities, like The Invid, or that the adversary's information technology will be sufficiently alien as to be immediately incompatible."

"The second assumption is that any adversary with substantial IT foundations will require exposure and _time_ to study, comprehend, and then find vulnerabilities in The Masters' computer systems and software."

"Humans have had the unique benefit of having both a foundation of technology, and _time_ to study the systems designed by The Masters."

Breetai was both quick and blunt in his concurrence.

"Colonel Nath is absolutely correct in her assessment, Mr. President. The Zentraedi have engaged in many campaigns against various enemies of The Robotech Masters. With the exception of The Invid, all have possessed independently developed technologies- some, arguably, even _more advanced_ than the technologies of The Masters."

"In each case, again excluding The Invid, these civilizations were crushed under the weight of numbers fielded by The Masters through the Zentraedi, and devoid of any technological victory."

"They were simply beaten into submission before they had a chance to react or adapt."

"Humankind is unique in the history of the Zentraedi's adversaries in that our initial imperative was _not_ to utterly destroy the civilization."

"Beginning with the salvage of Zor's Battle Fortress and the adoption and indigenous, continued development into your own variant of Robotechnology- humankind was both equipped with the primer and given the time to do exactly what Colonel Nath's team has apparently achieved."

"I am in agreement with my friend and colleague, General Breetai.", Exedore asserted without prompting, "Colonel Nath's Iago does appear to have benefitted from the improbable convergence of circumstances."

"The Robotech Masters, in adopting a growth model based on constant, rapid, and violent expansion created at the same time the means by which another culture could find and exploit their vulnerabilities. As they paused in their expansion, they defeated their own best defense. –I believe the term is _cruel irony._ "

Valterven shrewdly held to his skeptical stance.

"-And yet, Colonel Nath I have the distinct feeling that we've heard only the benefits of Iago and not the cost. If Iago were a panacea for the Zentraedi threat, then certainly it would have been brought prominently to my desk sooner for implementation against the fractured, rogue elements we've been most concerned with until recently. And Iago clearly did not provide the foresight to mitigate the grave danger our civilization is now in."

Nath was unapologetic but respectful in her reply, stating the facts as plainly as she might read the ingredients on the back of a soup can.

"Iago is _not_ a panacea, nor was it ever intended to be, Mr. President. Iago is a set of tools for complementing a Terran war effort from the cyber battlespace. It is in the advanced stages of refinement, but in the reality of only days ago was without a situation that warranted its application."

"This has changed."

Brigadier General Keenan clarified with a greater air of deference to The Executive's office.

"Mr. President, as Colonel Nath's team continued through the development process and the scope of what could be achieved began to be truly understood, it was felt and agreed upon in MARPA and SIGINT that it would be ill-advised to present Project Iago as simply another cyber-warfare too. Military strategists, planners, as well as even properly cleared members of the professional ethics and philosophical disciplines have been consulted to provide the recommended situational context for applying Iago."

"There has been no effort to conceal this project from either the chain of command or the civilian command authority- but rather it has not been broadly advertised since the full implications and potential of Iago have not yet been realized."

"You're insinuating that there's _more_ than what Colonel Nath has briefed, General?", asked CNO Admiral Coolidge, "Iago seems to do everything short of tie the enemy's shoelaces to one another."

General Keenan, having reached the moment in the revelation of Iago that he knew would come, resigned himself to what would follow and directed Nath simply with, "Tell them, Colonel."

Nath, with no more hesitation than she had shown in any of her briefing up to this point said, "A shortcoming of Iago that we have not yet been able to overcome is that we cannot limit its effect to a _specific_ Robotech Factory, or Zentraedi unit. When deployed, at whatever level of implementation is decided upon, Iago will affect _all_ Robotech Factories and Zentraedi units uniformly."

"This", Nath added, showing for an instant a hint of defense, "is not a result of shortcomings in our design or development, but rather in the design of the targeted systems. Because of the interoperability and stress on uniformity engineered into the systems designed to support the Zentraedi, there can be no creation of boundaries. Iago will infect the entire Robotech Factory support complex in a matter of weeks and all Zentraedi units thereafter depending on their level of contact and interface with that network."

As comprehension struck the room, silence descended momentarily like a wave receding from the shoreline.

And then the next wave broke.

No less than a dozen ranking civilian Government officials and military officers fought to be heard by and over one another in various protests over the detail of Iago that had just been shared.

President Valterven was preparing to silence what was nothing less than conversational chaos when MCS General Breetai quieted all others simply by voicing his own thoughts.

"This limitation you speak of, Colonel Nath-. This could pose a more serious threat to The United Earth in the long-term than a conventional campaign against the Te'Dak Tohl does in the short."

"It is commonly known that in order to face The Invid threat, The United Earth is investing great resources in the paced but massive build-up of military forces. The timetable for that build-up and the corresponding budgeting of resources is predicated on the understanding that there are presently Zentraedi units engaged in ongoing campaigns against The Invid."

"If Iago performs as you predict, we will be hobbling those Zentraedi whom we are depending upon to occupy The Invid while we prepare to meet their threat."

"For those at the table who have never met The Invid in combat, I can only lend you a shadow of my experience in saying that I find this possibility _disquieting_."

"And what of the GS-95 Factory? What level of risk does this present to Walhalla and the production capacity it provides for UE forces?"

"That risk has been recognized and addressed, General. The GS-95 is not in any measurable danger for the reasons that its Hypercomp has been partially lobotomized- for lack of a better term. As Admiral MacManus can confirm, it is disconnected for all practical purposes from The Robotech Factory network as fielded by The Masters. Both the Hypercomp main computer and all of the subsystems have been severed from the automated communications processes. Additionally, the manufacturing subsystems have been selectively disconnected from the Hypercomp itself. For Iago to infect Walhalla would require a deliberate effort of sabotage from within our own ranks, requiring considerable time and the penetration of multiple layers of defense that we have put into place since the capture of this facility."

Nath then readily conceded, "-And to your initial point, General, I have never fought Invid. For that matter I have never actually engaged in combat. _This_ is my first time off of the Earth if that has any relevancy to this discussion."

"My function has been to develop a weapon, a _tool_ to add to the available arsenal."

"I have presented this audience with an outline of Iago's capabilities, and have not attempted to conceal or misrepresent its shortcomings."

"It falls upon the chain of command and the command authority however to decide whether Iago is to be deployed, and at what level it should be implemented."

"Consider, however, that in the time that will be required to prepare an effective conventional response to the Te'Dak Tohl threat- Iago can already have created most of the required conditions for a quick victory. Following that victory, and with far fewer human and allied Zentraedi lives lost- the support complex for the Zentraedi combating the Invid could be restored-."

"Iago can be shut off then?- Reversed?", Valterven asked, his mind having hung on the concerns voiced by Breetai.

"Yes.", said Nath, "According to simulations and compartmentalized testing- normal function of The Robotech Factory support complex can be restored with full capacity of service restored in an estimated eighteen to twenty-four months."

"-And in that time", said Exedore, his voice having lost its joyfully philosophical air for a more solemn tone, "how many Zentraedi will have died combating The Invid? How much advantage will The Invid have gained in those campaigns? -And, if the Zentraedi have come to suspect a flaw in their supply base- will they even attempt to return to it once it has been _restored_ , as you claim it can be?"

"Risks that will have to be assessed and weighed before Iago is deployed.", Colonel Nath admitted quickly.

" _If_ Iago is deployed.", Valterven stipulated, "And that is far from decided by a single briefing, Colonel. We will want far more information on Project Iago before any decisions are made. General Keenan was correct that there are philosophical and ethical factors to be considered."

"As I am sure they will be.", Nath said, "But I am only charged with developing Iago, and at the end of the day, it is only a tool."

Valterven allowed a minor deviation from the critical path of discussion.

"I wonder if Robert Oppenheimer ever claimed that the atom or hydrogen bombs were _only tools_."

"No.", Nath replied, unsolicited, "Oppenheimer was a genius, but given to dramatics and sentimentality. He placed himself at the same level as Prometheus in giving fire to the mortals."

"Oppenheimer was anchored enough in practicality however to understand that whether it was he or someone else, both the atomic bomb and the hydrogen bomb _would_ be built."

"The benefit of building a weapon first is that you have the ability to first dictate how and when it is used. Would the Te'Dak Tohl hesitate to use Iago on us if they had it? After action reports from SIGINT suggest strongly that they have a similar tool that they may have been attempting to use on Earth's forces during their attack."

"We could justly consider use of Iago as symmetric retaliation."

"We are _not_ the Te'Dak Tohl though, Colonel.", Valterven said with finality, "And the _ability_ to cause mass slaughter will not be misconstrued as the _necessity_ to cause mass slaughter so long as I hold this office."

"And that is your decision to make, Mr. President.", Nath agreed, "I only offer capabilities. The more complex, ethical deliberations are yours."

"Consider this though, and I borrow from General Breetai's statements of only a few minutes ago. The Zentraedi as a whole- to include this new faction, the Te'Dak Tohl- have left in their wake innumerable extinct civilizations."

"Is moral superiority to one's enemy a desirable attribute if none of your own remain to appreciate it?"

"This is only a thought."

Visibly finished with the debate, but governing himself and permitting the voicing of the opinions around him, Valterven concluded the matter with-.

"So noted."

"I will want a follow-on briefing in greater detail for myself and my advisory staff, General Keenan. Only after hearing all of the details of Project Iago and discussing the full ramifications will _any_ decision be made."

"Yes, Mr. President.", Keenan replied.

Valterven was directing the opening of the next item of the morning's agenda when Breetai leaned over slightly to Keenan to speak in a moderated voice.

"I understand her nickname now."

Keenan nodded his agreement, "Colonel Nath is something, isn't she?"

"Yes, but the question is what that _something_ is. There are often fine lines between fighting with dedication for a just end and bringing about an unjust one."

"In any case, I would like to review the relevant materials and be briefed in advance of meeting with The President. Have your office set a time with my administrative staff before fourteen-hundred today."

Keenan nodded and jotted down a note on his computer tablet that he sent promptly to his own administrative staff as an electronic memo.

"The materials will be ready for your review by the end of this morning's session, sir."

"Thank you.", Breetai said, returning his attention to the new matter being briefed in The Situation Room.

"General Breetai-.", Keenan added, implying great importance in his voice that gained him his superior's ear for a moment longer.

"Yes?"

"Before you review all of the high-level Iago materials, I'd like to speak with you-. As early as our first recess this morning if I may, sir."

"Regarding what?"

"Regarding elements of Iago I asked Colonel Nath to withhold from the general briefing this morning."

"There's more?"

"Much more, sir- and I want you to hear it from me first."

Breetai paused with contemplation and then said, "Very well, at the first recess then."

 **RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain**

This was not Andrew Eric Johnson's first time in Spain.

When he had been younger, six or seven years of age, his parents had taken the whole family on summer holiday on the Mediterranean coast.

Andy could remember flashes of it, but like many of his age had difficulty remembering with clarity past The Zentraedi Holocaust which had divided time for a world into the two distinct portions of _before_ and _now_.

It had happened though, the family holiday, because Andy had seen the photographs in one of his mother's many albums repeatedly. By the smiles on the Johnson boys' faces- Dexter Jr., Howard, and Andy- and even on the faces of their parents, it could be inferred that a good time had been had by all.

It was just that these were to Andy like the memories of someone else's life, and that he could only enjoy them vicariously- like seeing something desirable through a shop's front window.

This was however the first time being in Spain for newly confirmed, Officer Candidate, _Airman_ Andrew Eric Johnson, Robotech Defense Forces- Air Force.

And thus far in _his_ trip to Spain, there had been little nor was there likely to be excessive smiling.

It had been a whirlwind since Collins, Cattermole, and he had dragged into Falkirk exhausted and damp from the herculean effort of simply getting back to RTC 32.

Series after series of forms had been filled out, part of the post-basic training service selection process. And following those series of forms, there had been more forms still punctuated only by an unexpected and coldly invasive physical exam.

Sometime in the late night, or perhaps the very early morning though- the enlisted who had spent three months living in one another's pockets were divided into smaller groups and put onto trucks to leave Falkirk with no more ceremony than if they had been going away on a weekend's pass.

That truck ride had led to another post somewhere around York, and another further division of the occupants of the truck. A _second_ truck ride brought those who had kept one another's company from the first to an airfield where they were joined by other enlisted from other trucks- all looking equally spent and adrift.

As a mass of the lost, they were ushered and packed into the cold belly of a cargo plane and the loading ramp shut.

When the ramp opened again, light penetrated the windowless, aluminum shell that had encased them for endless hours with a merciless and blinding intensity that seemed inconsistent with the first currents of warm, fresh air that swept over all.

A much needed walk through of the lavatory- an _actual_ lavatory and not the closet-sized, stainless steel mockery shared by all on the cargo plane- and then a pass through the mess hall for tea or coffee and a large cinnamon muffin still warm from the industrial grade ovens concluded the "welcome" to RDF-AF Base Salamanca.

Within an hour of setting foot on Spanish soil, Andy found himself in one seat of forty, divided into five rows eight deep in Classroom 7 of Training Building 3.

All of the seats around Andy were occupied- Cedric to his right, and Cattermole somewhere to the right and rear. They had stayed by coincidence or design together through the various sortings and transportation legs, and now like all of the others in the room they sat blank-faced and silent waiting for whatever came next.

His senses and perception dulled by the same fatigue that seemed to plague all in the room, Andy was aware of one other commonality-.

All could be seen quietly questioning exactly how they had arrived here and whether or not a grievous mistake had been made somewhere along the way.

Andy had mulled over the question many times in the eternity since he had submitted his selection request for the RDF-AF back at Falkirk.

Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, the answer was inescapable and therefore, he determined, best to be embraced and accepted.

Andy Johnson's reason for being in that seat, at RDF-AF Base Salamanca- in the RDF-AF _at all_ \- sat right in front of him.

Pamela Dunn had not said much since they had landed in Spain, but she was fortunate that in the flight over she had benefitted from several short naps using Andy's shoulder as a headrest. This was primarily the reason that Andy had _not_ slept- not wanting to disturb her rest while at the same time not enjoying the luxury of someone else to slump against. There had been an element of nerves as well, he had told himself- sleep likely wouldn't have come even if conditions had been ideal.

Now though, Andy found himself wishing that he had tried.

After all, it hadn't been impossible for Cattermole whose impressive and distinctive snoring had begun less than five minutes after the cargo plane had been buttoned up.

It didn't matter at this point, Andy resolved as the morning sun assaulted him sadistically. He would just muscle through it as he had in any number of things before.

He and Cedric had willed their way through adversity before and knew how to watch out for one another. In this way, they actually had an advantage as they sat side-by-side.

Glancing to his right though, and possibly bordering on hallucination, Andy swore he heard Cedric's generic warning to him-.

 _You're in it now, Andy Johnson._

Forty bodies in forty chairs started at the same instant, some more violently and impressively than others as the rear door to the classroom was silently opened and then slammed thunderously shut.

" _Good morning, Nuggets!_ Don't get up-."

Andy Johnson's skin crawled.

 _A Yank_.

Three words betrayed the speaker as a member of that odd, irreverent species that uniformly and vehemently believed themselves governors of as well as a gift to all Creation.

Of all the regions of the world from which the RDF could have drawn his first indoctrinator to the Air Force, Andy wondered which cruel Fate decided that it would have to be a Yank.

The sharp but simultaneously alluring smell of cigarette smoke followed in wisps of white the dark-haired man of medium age, stature, and build to the front of the classroom. On the instructor's console he deposited with a clatter a computer tablet, and then more caringly an ashtray of chipped and dirty glass.

Next, and inexplicably, the man set a worn tennis ball on the table- situating it in such a way as to be sure that it would not roll off.

As he went to the windows in the classroom's east-facing walls and began to open them one at a time- presumably to help mask his defiance of the large "No Fumar / No Smoking" sign hung beside the clock- Andy noticed that among the patches on his flight suit was that of a Valkyrie driver.

For Andy, still recovering from his initial, gut-reaction- things were taking a decided turn for the worse.

"Today is the first, long, _grueling_ day of many…", said the man in the flight utilities who wore major's oak leaves on his collar, "-And of course, of the rest of your life- how ever long that's gonna be."

The man spoke much as he moved from point to point in the classroom, deliberately and with great energy- though no _wasted_ energy.

Andy was sure he was a Yank now- certainly not of the Kingdom, Canada, or Australia by the way he spoke- but with that odd, non-descript accent that flew brazenly for all to hear the flag of "Yank".

"I'm Major Branch- you'll call me, _Twig_ \- and since this is the classroom portion of Basic Flight, I can only assume that you all intend to be _pilots_. You'll find I'm very _perceptive_ that way."

Branch sat on the edge of the table at the head of the classroom beside the instructor's console and tapped the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray. The smell added an additional agony to the litany being felt by Andy as his body remembered that it had been nearly twenty hours since a sacrificial fag had burned to placate the demons within.

"I called you all _Nuggets_ a moment ago-.", Branch continued as others stirred around Johnson, suffering in the same way as he apparently, "That's not slanderous or derogatory. You got past that crap in Basic, and it would appear that you're all parallel tracking the Green to Gold program. You're now _Nuggets_ because the Air Force has determined that you're rare and precious with _potential_."

"Don't get full of yourselves just yet though, because you still need _refining_ and _forming_ \- and that's why you are here."

"Let me be the first to congratulate you in being part of the first class of its kind. This is Basic Flight, of course, but with emphasis and a curriculum geared toward Veritech Fighter School and Advanced Multi-Space Combat Training."

"Let's be honest- _no one_ who dreams of or pictures themselves as a pilot sees themselves flying a cargo plane."

Branch was off the tabletop and around to the instructor's console in single, flowing movement. He tapped at the touch-screen controls that were not visible to those in the student seats, but the effect of his activities was quickly apparent as the smart board at the front of the classroom as well as the smart tops of the desks came alive.

On the board at the front of the classroom, a montage of still photos began to cycle through as a slide show. Men and women of all ethnicities and cultural backgrounds within a clear age range graced the smart board in turn with their smiling faces.

"Veritech pilots- all of them.", Branch said, leaving the instructor's podium to begin walking up and down the rows of desks amongst his Nuggets, "Highly intelligent, highly trained, mentally and physically capable all-."

Branch passed Johnson from behind, paused at Pamela Dunn's seat, and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Do you want to be one of them?"

Dunn, shocked by suddenly being on the spot looked up, saying, "Yes, Major Branch-. Yes I do."

" _NNNNNNNTT!_ ", came the noise from Branch's clenched teeth sounding remarkably like a penalty buzzer.

"It's, _Twig_ , my callsign, and _no you don't._ "

"You, Nuggets, do _not_ want to be like any of the determined and dedicated individuals that you see before you because they _all_ have two things in common. First, it turns out that they were _mediocre_ Veritech pilots; and, second they are all dead. –There _is_ a clear correlation between these two."

"Nuggets, I'm going to warn you right now- mediocrity, loss of focus, and stupid mistakes are _lethal_ in the occupation you are attempting to enter. If you don't think you've got what it takes to do the job, walk away, and ensure that those _depending on you_ to walk away from combat actually do- then do everyone a favor and get up and slink out the door back there, _right now_."

Branch waited in silence for a moment with no reaction from the room.

"I'm not joking. This isn't to humiliate you. There's no shame in deciding that this isn't your cup of tea. There are many important and fine jobs in the Air Force- many different kinds of pilots…"

"-Veritechs just require the _best_."

None of the forty moved, or even dared to breathe heavily as Branch surveyed all around him.

"Fair enough.", said the pilot returning to the front of the classroom, "So, now the ugly truth about the training you're beginning. Neither I, nor any of your instructors are going to take you at your word that you're stellar. From this moment on, we will do everything to weed out the mediocre amongst you, mentally, physically, academically, and in application of the skills that you'll be taught."

"Take a moment to look to your left and you're right. Remember those faces fondly. Today is the _last_ day you will see all of them. You're now on a track that is highly demanding at every level, and easier to drop out of than a greased tree."

Branch paused again, and when he resumed speaking his tone was more fraternal.

"-So you all want to be Veritech pilots…. Okay, let's get started…."

The major drew a board stylus from its holder and began to write in large and fast strokes on the smart board at the front of the room. When he stepped away a moment later, the output of his work remained visible to all:

 **1- SEE THE OTHER GUY FIRST.**

 **2- MANEUVER TO ATTACK.**

 **3- COVER YOUR WINGMAN.**

"-There you go.", Branch said, returning the stylus to its holder, "You are now masters of the concepts at the core of being a Veritech Fighter pilot. We're just going to have to bring you up to speed on the _how to-_."

 **Brasilia**

Quick concealment was not a challenge for a Ranger normally- it was a skill taught early, taught well, reinforced, and practiced routinely in the field.

Maintaining a concealed position without compromising its integrity in the prolonged and proximal presence of one's enemy was somewhat more difficult, required cool nerve and patience, and least appealingly a degree of luck.

Maintaining a concealed position in proximity to a _large_ number of the enemy with the hours of darkness quickly dwindling was not only an exercise in skill, but a test of faith.

As positions went and given the circumstances, the sole standing corner of a collapsed, low-rise brick structure that by the presence of glass-top refrigerators and crushed shelving jumbled into the rubble had probably been a neighborhood store at some point in Brasilia's ancient past, this position was not bad.

Lieutenant Whilite with Private Rodriguez had been the second pair to bound the open street following Staff Sergeant Byerly and Private Miller's path to this point while the rest of the Echo Company probe covered from various positions.

All night, since the storm drain system had entered Brasilia proper and Captain Nguyen had elected to abandon its cover for the ability to maneuver and survey more freely on the surface, this bounding movement by pairs had moved the probe along at a steady clip without sacrificing caution unduly.

The probe had moved in this way through desolate and smoldering neighborhoods, through commercial and small business areas, and even around a two-block area that had been a heavily occupied malcontent encampment which Echo Company had assisted in clearing nearly a month before.

Things had been going smoothly and within expectations as they often did in an operational area- until they didn't.

Near the center of the area of Brasilia through which Nguyen had expected to move to reach Homestead Base- inexplicably, there was a Zentraedi presence.

It was not puzzling to find Zentraedi in Brasilia- neither BBG ("Big Blue Guy") regulars either in battle armor and field gear, or in mecha, or their micronized, malcontent LBG ("Little Blue Guy") counterparts who seemed to flock to the full-size warriors like newly-found followers of Earth-fallen saviors.

It wasn't puzzling- these were the enemy and this was a war, and Brasilia was once again occupied territory.

What was perplexing and frustrating to Echo Company's detachment was the finding of the enemy _here._

The Rangers had known the Zentraedi to be in the city. They had known since the first firefight while the planetary assault was still ongoing that the malcontents who had evacuated Brasilia were as hastily returning.

On their approach to the city, Nguyen's probe had seen the regular coming and going of alien transports, presumably landing Zentraedi ground units and possibly extracting the long-marooned malcontents to other locations, possibly even to their fleet for size restoration and rearming for the fight.

If this were the case, then rallying areas would be needed, but the transport LZ appeared to be the city's west.

This made the crossing of paths with mix of Regult Battle Pods and a large number of malcontents the dumbest of dumb luck.

It had happened though.

No sooner had Whilite's trailing boot come off the sidewalk for this side of the street than the first heavy thud of mechanized feet had been heard and felt.

The Rangers had concealed instantly, hunkering down into shadows and where possible into physical cover- all praying fervently that the mecha would not come their way, or that if it did that the warriors at the controls were not scanning in the infra-red spectrum.

The first prayer had not been answered favorably by The Almighty, as a leading Regult had trod heavily straight up the center of the street that Whilite had just crossed and had come to a halt bisecting almost his exact path.

The four isolated Rangers had spent an interminable thirty seconds trying to control the volume of their own breathing and galloping hearts within a stone's throw of the Regult that they could easily look up at and see in clear detail over the broken upper fringes of the building corner in which they sheltered.

A second Regult and a third had followed until a platoon's strength had passed between and around the divided Rangers.

Four had lingered as the others had moved off, staying at a position some three hundred meters further along the street in what had been a city park.

By this time though, micronized warriors had begun to pass through, abandoning noise discipline with their loud conversations and careless shuffling as they enjoyed the psychological comfort of protection from their mecha-driving comrades.

These Zentraedi, the malcontents who in their exile on this world had developed a sense for their surroundings and who would be the quickest to pick up on indications that they were not alone- _these_ Zentraedi did not move through.

In small groups and large, they had stopped along the street that Echo Company's probe had been trying to cross- three even parking themselves against the street-facing wall behind which Whilite and his subordinates covered. By the different voices, Whilite was able to identify three were no further away from him than the bricks that separated them for over ninety minutes.

An ongoing conversation between the two individuals whom Whilite had taken to calling _Voice #2_ and _Voice #3_ inside of his own head had burned heated, and then almost turned violent with shouting.

Probably only a "soldiers' fight", or the alien equivalency to it, it had gotten animated enough for #2 and #3 to grapple and bump the standing brick corner with enough force to dislodge a high brick from its place, and bouncing it off of Rodriguez's rifle with an accompanying shower of cement dust.

Voice #1 had intervened though, as had two other voices- one speaking with a clear tone of authority- and the confrontation was ended.

Voice #1 and Voice # 3 had remained as #2 accompanied the others away, still grumbling loudly in the Zentraedi dialect.

Whilite and Byerly were both able to breathe again as they lowered their side arms from the ready, having silently drawn them from holsters and screwed on sound suppressors in anticipation that they might have to be used at close-quarters.

The fight between #2 and #3 had been averted for less than a minute when shouts- _commands_ \- began to carry up the street and the sound of many warriors getting to their feet and starting to move could be heard.

The malcontents were moving out- at last.

A kink in the small of his back that had developed over an hour before was now screaming at Whilite to be attended to with a good stretch from the squatting position he'd been keeping behind the wall. To move more than the little bit possible to keep his legs from losing blood flow and falling asleep seemed like a reward greater than winning the lottery, and was within his reach.

As #1 and #2 were heard to pick up weapons and carrying gear of some kind from where it had been leaned against the exterior face of the wall, one of the Rangers in the darkness moved. A foot, or a hip, or the stock of a rifle nudged a brick in the wall that faced what had been an alley between the crumbled structure and the mostly intact one that stood still beside it- and a cluster of four joined bricks fell out- _loudly._

Yet unseen, the Zentraedi that were Voice #1 and Voice #2 could be heard, _perceived_ to pause at the disturbance.

A quick and hushed exchange between them confirmed it.

Not knowing a word of Zentraedi outside of the six or seven commands of use he'd picked up while in The Zone, Whilite's mind translated the alien exchange flawlessly for his understanding, as the exchanged progressed:

 _Did you hear that?_

 _Yes- something on the other side of the wall._

 _Well?_

 _Well, I guess we'd better get to it-. It ain't gonna kill itself._

Whilite and the other Rangers had shut off their night vision systems as soon as they'd been pinned. Keeping the optics running while remaining sedentary had promised to do nothing but drain batteries that might be needed later.

-And there was that gnawing dread also that the soft, shrill tone of the working optics would somehow, incredibly be heard by the enemy sitting less than a meter away.

It was no matter, their eyes had since adjusted to the deep darkness- well enough at least to be able to put on in the brain of targets that would come into the open less than an arm's length away.

The suppressed muzzles of Whilite and Byerly's pistols tracked along in the darkness in sync with the sound of footsteps on rubble and debris.

Whilite tried not to think about how they'd deal with the hundreds of malcontents probably moving on along the street at that very moment if the two entering the alley needed to be dropped.

Whilite made out a the outline of a head with long and wildly unkempt hair passing beyond the upper edge of the broken brick wall as it made its downward slope along its run further back into the alley. If the Zentraedi had looked just slightly left of center, Whilite was certain that he would have seen the bore of two pistols pointed at him, but he did not.

He was distracted by and focused on something else- possibly a sound from the mostly intact building standing beside the Rangers' cover, and one of the gaping holes in its walls that gave the promise of better concealment than what Whilite and the others enjoyed.

A second head, and then shoulders appeared in trail, also looking in the same direction.

The second head did turn though.

Whilite could not make out the fine details of the Zentraedi warrior's face, but he could clearly see the whites of his eyes- especially when they widened at seeing the Rangers.

The mouth opened as though to give a cry of warning, but the only sound was a heavy, hollow, _pop_ \- followed by the wet pattering of blood and tissue exploded from an exit wound.

Neither Whilite nor Byerly had fired though.

The body went down heavily from the silenced sniper's shot.

From somewhere across the street, the team of spotter and shooter for Echo Company, Harris and Fuller had clearly taken an overwatch position and had been diligently at that task.

The fall of the Zentraedi was known to his companion almost as quickly as to the covering Rangers.

He spun to face the perceived threat, and Whilite's finger was tightening on the trigger when the second warrior gave a strained gasp that mingled with a grisly _thud_ of splitting flesh and bone- but not from the impact of a bullet.

The giant frame teetered in the shadows and began to crumple before it appeared to be snatched back into the shadows of the building the warrior had been investigating moments before.

From the dark, the whisper came, " _70_ _th_ _Gurkha Rifles…_ "

Abandoning the practice of challenge and response, Whilite replied, " _Rangers._ "

Rodriguez and Miller grunted with the effort of moving great weight as they dragged the body of the sniper-felled warrior out of the alley and behind the cover they had occupied for an hour and a half.

Heavy footsteps could be heard passing by, still only meters away.

" _Wait for my word, and then move to my position._ ", directed the voice now identified with the 70th Gurkha Rifles.

Whilite lifted his knee just enough to take up his rifle from where he'd laid it, and slung the safetied weapon over his shoulder as he prepared to move. Byerly and the two privates were crouched and equally prepared to abandon the cover they'd occupied for far too long. The Staff Sergeant made gestures in the dark dictating the order of movement.

Whilite found that he would go third from his trusted NCO, with Byerly taking up the rear.

" _Now!_ "

Rodriguez, then Miller bolted into the dark. Whilite was behind them, cringing in flight at the loud pop emitted by his left knee- an act of protest no doubt for the time it had been forced to remain immobile.

The lieutenant was a foot through the gaping hole of the building's wall and into the inkiness beyond when two pairs of strong hands grabbed him by the left arm and right carrying harness, guiding him and pulling him powerfully into his new refuge.

The hands released Whilite in the dark, and a moment later Byerly was beside him.

On the suspicion that they would be moving again shortly, and eager to put a face to the vaguely familiar voice that had spoken in the darkness, Whilite turned his night vision optics on again.

Through the green film, Whilite found himself nearly nose-to-nose, or rather nose-to-upper chest with Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh of the 70th Gurkha Rifles' C Company. With his turban and flowing black beard, he looked an odd union of past and future warriors wearing most of the components of his Cyclone CVR-3 riding armor.

" _Sri?_ "

" _Ed?_ "

Singh's massive hand took in Whilite's entire right shoulder and gave him three jubilant shakes.

"We were beginning to think that we might be the only survivors."

Two of Singh's men, whose faces were familiar but whose names Whilite could not recall stood just inside the hole through which the Rangers had entered the building, guarding and at the ready with sound suppressed HK sub-machineguns. One of the men was bearded and wore a turban like Singh, but the other was clearly of European descent and remarkably clean-shaven.

Staff Sergeant Byerly had by this time moved Rodriguez and Miller into a second firing position from which they could support the two martial Gurkhas.

At a barely audible whisper, like Singh, Whilite replied, "We thought the same, and that's what we're here to find out."

"How many of you?", Singh asked.

"Here? A small detachment.", Whilite replied being intentionally vague. There was still a possibility of capture and interrogation- rare as that was for malcontents, the malcontents were clearly not calling the shots for the other team now.

"The rest of Echo Company is still in the field. We're here looking for survivors and for supplies."

Singh's expression showed for a moment a hint of both anger and sadness before returning to its normal, impenetrable stoicism.

"You'll find much more of the latter than of the former I'm afraid, my friend."

Whilite happened to glance down where the body of the first Zentraedi warrior lay face-down in the urban detritus strewn over the floor. A large kukri knife, the sacred and traditional weapon of the Gurkhas (though Whilite knew from first meeting Singh, that he and his men were not _ethnic_ Gurkhas at all, but Sikh) protruded from between the alien's shoulders, its blade buried easily twelve centimeters deep and nearly to the forward curve of the weapon. Singh and two of his subordinates had once demonstrated their proficiency at throwing the odd looking knives, splitting boards with ease from up to ten meters as naturally as some threw darts in a bar.

This particular Zentraedi had received a single, all-inclusive lesson on Gurkhas and their warrior prowess.

"We can't stay here.", Singh said abruptly as he sank with a knee to the dead alien's back and retrieved his kukri with a soft, sickly, sucking noise as the blade left the fatal wound.

"There is safety nearby."

"Roger that.", Whilite said, keying the mike on his radio. General orders for the probe had been to maintain radio silence, but this had been while visual signal been viable. The benefits of a short, coded radio exchange outweighed the risks at this point.

"Echo Actual, Echo Three. Contact made with friendlies-. Moving to secondary position. Stand by for rally details on my next trans. Over."

"Three, Actual.", replied Nguyen's voice, "Roger that. Over."

74


	8. Paths to Reciprocity

**Chapter Seven**

 **Paths to Reciprocity**

"There has always been a sound associated with the appalling conduct of war."

"In ancient times battle was heralded by the uniform step of thousands of marching feet that shook the very ground with their approach. The blood of combatants and innocents alike was chilled by the clash of blade and shield."

"Later, the measured thud of the march was joined by the industrial rumble of engines and crush of wheel and tread over earth. In this era the battlefield itself shrieked with exchange of artillery that drowned out the cries of the dying."

"The horrors of slaughter later assumed the drone of the propeller and the whistle of the falling bomb, and in time these gave way to the jet and the rocket."

"Now, our technological _sophistication_ allows Death the ability to make his calls with little more sound than the click of a mouse."

"May we be damned to Hell as a species if our humanity _ever_ allows that sound to be any less unnerving and distressing than the sounds of war that came before it."

\- President Levin Valterven

 **Mexico City**

"Durango is the place for this."

Central Headquarters of The Army of the Southern Cross like any other major military facility on Earth had fortified bunkers capable of sustaining command and control functions for weeks on end with the best and latest in equipment and even with an element of comfort.

Still, as the hour slipped into late night, General Marcus Merrill Leonard held session around a long table at the center of his headquarters' ceremonial hall.

A light breeze, still noticeably warm from the waning heat of day carried through the open windows across the large chamber with the high, vaulted ceiling, ushering away the haze from the nervous activity of dozens of smokers.

The same light breeze lifted and flapped the corners of an enormous map that Leonard had had brought in and spread over the majority of the banquet table.

General Leonard was not averse to technology in any application, though his staff knew that whenever possible he preferred the paper medium for conveying geographic detail.

It may have been the tactile sensation of the map under his hands, or the ease with which thoughts on force placement and movement could be jotted down- the map having residual evidence of this use at multiple points. There was more to General Leonard's fidelity to the printed map however, something that all who supported him sensed.

The map was a _traditional_ tool woven into the fabric of military command the way that the hammer or plane was a part of woodworking.

Who among Leonard's staff had not heard him remark when a map had been unfurled that if maps had served Alexander, Agrippa, Hannibal, Napoleon, Lee, and Von Polis- why should he feel that they were beneath him?

Detailed planning- whatever detailed planning time would allow- would be done with the finest technology and processes that human achievement could provide, but General Marcus Merrill Leonard would paint his broad strokes on paper.

Leonard's hand moved across the use-familiar map placing onyx pawns from a chess set onto different areas with an emphatic tap as he spoke.

"- _Oklahoma… New Mexico…. Arizona…. California… Texas…. Sonora…. Chihuahua… Coahuila de Zaragoza_ … All areas of the North American Sector that the enemy has made significant planetfall."

"Ideally, these would be the areas to focus an initial counterattack upon- catch them in transition- at a point of weakness as they move boots to the ground. However, neither we nor the RDF have sufficient force density to mount effective counter-landing operations across such a broad area."

"What is working in our favor is that the enemy is not putting down roots where they're setting down-."

One at a time Leonard moved the pawns into an arrowhead cluster in the northern portion of Mexico that like a flock of birds suggested the direction in which it would travel.

"In conjunction with lesser landings in southern Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, and Costa Rica, the drive seems to be toward The Control Zone. The movement of enemy forces landed in Paraguay, Bolivia, and Argentina north seems to support this. The possibility of enemy intelligence tipping them to the fact that this area of South America is already a Zentraedi malcontent stronghold, they are clearly looking to seize and hold the equatorial areas of Earth where the growth of The Flower of Life is most abundant."

"We're not in a position to do much about the landings south of their objective in the Americas, but we do have a chance to impact their southward movement."

"Durango is our strongest point from which to mount an effective counterattack given the speed of the enemy's advance. The facilities to move a large number of both ASC and RDF forces into place are still intact and the terrain in the area is perfect for what I propose to do."

"Zentraedi standard battle doctrine dictates the assembly and rapid movement of massed forces. This provides them with the initiative and frontal density to quickly overwhelm enemy obstacles in their path as well as the objective of their offensive-."

"Begging your pardon, General", said RDF-Army Attaché, Brigadier General Lowell, interjecting himself, "-That may be a strategic flaw in itself. The Zentraedi are massing for a major fight- their specialty. If we are _fortunate_ \- how many full, combat-ready divisions can we jointly move into position in the time we have? Twenty- perhaps?"

Leonard did not pause for a moment with his reply, as though he had begun to speak with the expectation of having to address just such an observation and appeared only mildly annoyed at having to do so.

"Perfectly correct, General- we will be woefully outnumbered. I wouldn't allow the company of anyone at my table who was foolish enough to consider taking the Zentraedi head-on, or grappling with them. We just haven't the forces, and it would be weeks before we could muster the men and equipment required to even consider it."

"-We can however give them the illusion of what they want- a definitive battle. We will affect diversions, spoiling actions to slow their movement toward The Control Zone and in doing so fix them in the wastelands with the impression that we are prepared to fight them on their terms. We will then do our best to keep them on the cusp of the battle that they want for as long as we can. All the while, they'll be consuming their supplies-."

"The weakness of the Zentraedi war machine is inescapably linked to their greatest strength. They are so geared toward mobility and swift movement to win their campaigns swiftly, that they are ill-suited for static warfare. They haven't the doctrine or the facilities to remain stationary or anchored in a geographical area for extended periods."

"-You see, General Lowell.", Leonard explained tracing his finger on the map around the hash, desolate region of Durango, "We only need to hold them there. The desert will be our weapon and our battle-ready divisions. It will do much of the killing for us."

"That's the gamble, General Leonard-.", Lowell replied, "- _If_ we can keep them fixed and from resupplying."

"Yes, that is the gamble and the challenge.", Leonard admitted, "The Army of the Southern Cross with the supplemental forces being provided by the RDF Army can provide the ground force required to spar with the Zentraedi. We're as agile, and we're able to effectively re-supply units in the field. That is not my concern."

"My concern is preventing the enemy from resupplying. The ASC Air Force has numbers, but our aircraft, our control systems, even our training lends itself toward regional control- not bringing down enemy transports and landing forces."

"The _RDF_ on the other hand-."

" _That_ we can do, General.", Lowell said proudly, almost gleefully- there was a certain gratification that came with recognizing a surviving capability when so many home forces had been rendered moot.

Leonard's expression tightened and twisted into something not so much scornful, but cautionary.

"Don't get overzealous on me, General Lowell. A strangle-hold requires all of the fingers of the hand to work together. Your Air Force might be the thumb, maybe even the thumb and forefinger- but _all_ of the fingers are required. Don't lose sight of that in a grab for the glory."

"We wouldn't dream of it, General.", Lowell assured the senior officer, "We'll do our part."

Leonard surveyed the map in all its details like one at the beginning of a long and grueling task- which he recognized he was. The map was a blank canvas of sorts on which he and whoever his anonymous opponent in the Zentraedi command structure was would paint in conjunction. Leonard would paint his elements, and the enemy commander would paint his- and slowly the work would come together.

Only at the end would it be clear whose contributions would be the most significant, and only at the end would it be known whose signature would emblazon the border largest.

"For this war to go in our favor", Leonard warned with the normal undertone of theatricality that he was known for underscoring his words, "We are going to have to be patient and calculating. This is an enemy who we will have to chip away one piece at a time-."

" **Walhalla": The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

As President Valterven's mind raced around the implications of the short and direct briefing that had just been presented by Colonel Surt Nath, he became aware that he had grown physically numb. It was this disconnected, anesthetized sensation though that he suspected was preventing him from reacting in step with the rising anger he felt.

In Minister of Defense Forsberg, a mountain of a man with clear Nordic ancestry, and Senior Military Advisor Hewitt who had sampled war on both the military and political sides Valterven saw a corporal reflection of his inner feelings at that moment. The faces of the two men had grown ashen, as though they were about to be overtaken by physical illness.

-And who could have held them at fault?

Colonel Nath had over the course of perhaps two minutes how Iago could be applied as a tool of _enemy force reduction_ in the same manner that it could be used as a means of sabotaging the Zentraedi military industrial complex and supply chain.

Without intoning the word that even Nath in her emotionally detached existence realized would have evoked the visceral response now seen on Forsberg and Hewitt- she had offered a tool of genocide.

Military Chief of Staff Breetai, of those in The Presidential Office of Walhalla's Civilian Operations Wing, was least outwardly effected. His countenance remained the same, stoic and grim- well within "the norm". Behind the eye unobstructed by cosmetically unflattering technology though, Valterven could see hints of a deeper reaction governed by a life of self-imposed discipline.

He better than all of the others in the office understood better what was truly meant by bringing a species to the edge of extinction.

"I am prepared to answer any questions that you might have on the operational capabilities of Iago as I have just briefed them to you, Mr. President."

Colonel Nath's tone and words were not quite smug, but there was a shadow of it there. She had calculated expertly the disarming effect that her briefing would have, and now like a student of programming executing her first attempt at written code successfully, Nath was reveling in her subdued way at the expected outcome. If there was any deeper element to the moment for the colonel, Valterven could not tell.

"No, the briefing was concise.", Valterven said, quelling a tremble of revulsion and anger as it threatened his words, "You may show yourself out Colonel, and await our determination of the scope to which your team's Iago virus will be deployed."

Nath gathered the few briefing materials that she had brought with her and returned them to the unadorned file jacket in which she had carried them.

With a simple motion that was somewhere between an exaggerated nod and slight bow, she acknowledged her audience.

"Mr. President, Minister, Advisor, General, sirs-. Good day."

Without another word or hesitation the slight framed officer departed.

The door to The Presidential Office closed, sealing with a soft click that assured all within that they were now sound-isolated from the reception area and the ears of those just beyond.

A long moment passed with only the sound of the air circulation system and the regular ticking of an antique mantle clock to be heard.

".. _My God…_ ", Minister of Defense Forsberg finally said distantly, "To think…"

Breetai was quick to acknowledge the sentiment if not its faith-oriented expression, "Yes, truly disquieting."

Senior Military Advisor Hewitt cocked his head to one side as though he had misheard Breetai, " _Disquieting?-_ Breetai, for Christ's sake she just told you that with a few key strokes she can turn off the life support of who knows how many millions of your kind and kill them in stasis. That's more than _disquieting_ \- it's…."

Hewitt struggled for the word that encapsulated all that was swelling within him.

" _Horrific._ ", Valterven suggested, speaking for himself, " _Ghastly…_ -Which is why Iago will _never_ be used in that way, not while my Administration holds this Office."

Breetai, clearly thoughtful in his choice of words, said with a note of both admiration and sympathy to Valterven, "Admirable as that position is, Mr. President, consider that your adversary would almost certainly not show the same ideal if your positions were reversed. –And Mr. Advisor, _billions_ may be more accurate in terms of the number of Zentraedi that we are speaking of."

" _Irrelevant_.", Minister Forsberg said, disgust at the thought clear in his voice, "We are a species that has committed genocidal acts on ourselves repeatedly throughout our history, and that has had genocidal attempts made against it. Recognizing how close we have come is reason enough to know the line that we will not cross."

Breetai allowed Forsberg to finish before making his counterpoint, "And your species is noble for taking that position, as other species have in the past. Regrettably, I am witness to say that many of those species are now extinct because that moral belief is not _universal._ "

There was a scornful edge to President Valterven's voice as he replied to his senior military officer, "Then you're advocating that we exercise this option, Breetai? I cannot believe that. First, you have proven yourself a moral man, and secondly because this single act would threaten the continuity of your own species."

Breetai nodded his concession, "Yes, Mr. President- morally I a stand your side and that of Minister Forsberg and of Senior Advisor Hewitt-. However, as my sworn responsibility is to advise you on military matters and execute your orders, I am _also_ obligated to assess this option from a position of practicality."

"Colonel Nath's Iago virus, while appalling in this application, does nullify the greatest advantage that General Krymina holds over us- a nearly inexhaustible supply of battle-ready combatants."

"-And therefore killing them in their sleep is an option to consider?", Hewitt challenged.

"Morally and professionally, and in our current position- I say, _no._ ", Breetai replied, "But more than any other individuals, we in this room are aware that victory for and reclamation of Earth is based on an undetermined number of long-odd victories. The other capability elements of Iago that we have already informally agreed are acceptable to deploy will improve the likelihood of those necessary victories, but will by _no means_ assure them."

"What I am reminding us all of is the possibility that the fortunes of war may not favor us. We may find ourselves at some point having to reconsider what we find acceptable in order to preserve our culture."

"-Even at the cost of our souls?", Forsberg pointed out, "And speaking to the _practicality_ that you touched on, Breetai-. Remember that you yourself have said that in offsetting a nearly inevitable confrontation with The Invid, we are sadly dependent upon the ongoing war between the Zentraedi and The Invid to allow us time to adequately prepare."

"All questions we would have to re-examine should the need arise.", Breetai replied, "But that time is not upon us."

"And therefore, that option is off the table- at this time.", President Valterven said with the authority he held in the matter, "However, that is said sadly with the caveat that General Breetai may be correct in that we will need to re-address the option. –Should the fortunes of war not favor us."

"Members of my family died protecting Jews from the Nazis", Forsberg volunteered proudly but unexpectedly, "-so I do not want to be mistaken in what I am about to say with advocating this application of Iago-. However isn't it possible if not likely that at the time that we would be re-examining this option that it would already be too late to have the desired effect on the course of the war? Could we not at that point be destroying another species as we ourselves were on the way out?"

"Mutually assured destruction is not a new concept to humans.", Breetai observed having been a quick study of Terran history.

"As a concept for deterrence.", Hewitt joined in, "Not in practice."

President Valterven steered the discussion off of the tangent and back onto its main and appropriate course.

"Yes, possibly-. Though erring on the side of our values as a _people_ and not preemptively committing such an atrocity is a risk that we are morally obligated to take. We aspire to peace with all peoples, and also in the Zentraedi there is the potential of a friendship that we must eventually have if either of our species is to survive, given The Invid threat."

"That is my position- _at this time_."

The phone on the corner of the executive desk buzzed in a harsh and penetrating tone signifying by its sound that the incoming call was coming from one of Walhalla's military operations centers versus a civilian circuit.

Senior Military Advisor Hewitt lifted the handset from the phone cradle on the end table near where he sat.

"Yes?-.", Hewitt answered, and paused for a few moments as information was passed to him.

"Yes, understood. Thank you."

Returning the handset to the cradle, Hewitt relayed the information he had received to those around him.

" _SDF-3_ has just cleared spacedock. Operation Doolittle is underway."

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

"Passing inner channel threshold now-.", announced the navigator whose determination of the _Samuels'_ position was based on the three-dimensional holographic display that was the centerpiece of his duty station and the focus of his attention.

"-We're now in the channel holding the center line. Forty seconds to outer channel threshold, present course and speed."

Commander Devereaux turned her attention inside of the bridge as the spacedock fell astern and the enormous interior space bored out of the rock of the asteroid body from which this module of the GS-95 was constructed gave way to the tunnel that led to open space.

Designed to accommodate vessels many times the size of the _Samuels_ , the frigate could have as easily and safely traveled broadside through the channel with ample space fore, aft, above, and below- but in adherence to safe navigation regulations, the _Samuels_ moved by thruster propulsion in traditional orientation only at a generous interval in tandem from the frigate that had sortied in departure order immediately before her.

The crew at their stations around the bridge were deeply engrossed with their various duties which left them mostly oblivious to the activities of the two senior officers. To Devereaux however, Lieutenant Commander Petersen seemed edgy just beneath the well-maintained projection of an executive officer that he maintained.

As he moved to the head of the command center, to gaze out over the ship's long foredeck, Devereaux joined him.

"You look like you're ready to come out of your skin, Pete. …We're only planning to fold into an enemy stronghold, vastly outnumbered, and pick a fight-. What could possibly go wrong?"

Petersen chuckled at the gallows humor offered by the commanding officer, "It's not that-. We've done the long odds before. We've just never turned around significant repairs so fast under this kind of pressure to go out into _very_ long odds. Just the normal jitters about putting stress on the hull after repairs- only multiplied by a factor of combat."

Devereaux let a breath of mild resignation escape just loud enough for Petersen to hear.

"Did we patch ourselves up by the book? –Albeit quickly?"

Petersen nodded, "Yeah, to the letter."

"Do we have reason to think that corners were cut in the patching or with follow-on inspection?"

"Not in the least."

"Anything we could have done better in the time we had?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Well", Devereaux sighed, "sounds like we're in as good a state as ever to roll the dice. Besides, we just slapped on a fresh coat of the good paint- that'll hold _Sam_ together. Chalk it up to nerves because history is watching, Pete- everybody's feeling it."

"More like nerves hoping that there will be someone friendly to learn the history."

"Understood and accepted with my sympathies- as long as the crew doesn't see it."

Petersen made the visible effort to stand more rigid, "Stoic and stupid brave as far as they're concerned, Skipper. I'm ready to eat hull rivets with my hard tack."

Devereaux nodded, "The ideal of a naval officer, Pete-."

"Ten seconds to the outer channel threshold.", announced the navigator.

Sure enough, the square aperture was growing large dead ahead with a field of unfamiliar stars glittering brilliantly against the pitch black. The frigate that had led the _Gordon P. Samuels_ was now opening the range between them noticeably under main propulsion and was climbing away to starboard.

A moment later the grey metal confines of the spacedock channel fell away to the enormity of the cosmos at all visible points.

"We're clear of the channel and free to navigate, Captain.", said the navigator as he adjusted his console controls to bring up the appropriate display.

"Put us in with the cool kids, Pete."

"Aye, Captain-. Quartermaster, secure all thrusters to stand-by and bring the mains on-line."

"Aye sir, thrusters to stand-by and main engines indicate ready."

"Ahead one-third, up forty-five and five degrees right. Navigator, plot a heading to put us into assigned screening position."

"Plus forty-five, right standard rudder, aye.", answered the quartermaster as he supervised the activates of the helmsmen before him.

The navigator worked out a quick heading that would bring the _Gordon P. Samuels_ into her assigned, protective position at the operational flagship's side.

As the starfield before the ship continued to smoothly pitch and roll to the frigate's maneuver, Devereaux reached to the intercom box close to her chair at the port bulkhead. Depressing the "1MC" (1-"Main Circuit") option switch, she lifted the phone from its secure cradle and sounded the "attention" tone which echoed throughout the ship's spaces over the public address system.

"All hands", Devereaux said, consciously maintaining the same confident, even tone she used for everything from ordering from the menu selection on the chow line in her periodic appearances in the ship's mess to ordering tactical action in combat, "this is the Captain. As you're all aware, we've spent the last twenty-four hours breaking our backs to get the _Samuels_ back into top, fighting shape. We have just cleared spacedock, and I'm now permitted to tell you why-. We are going into harm's way, probably much sooner than any of you expected. Given what's happened over the past few days, I know that you have all been eager to get into this war and start making a difference- I know that I have. Now's our chance."

"We are returning to the Sol system as part of Operation Doolittle, under the flag of Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter herself, and acting both in support of _SDF-3_ , and to hunt the enemy independently. Once we are secured in spacefold, division officers will be fully briefed and they will pass details down through the chain."

"The _Gordon P. Samuels_ has been given the honor of being permitted to participate in the first offensive operation of this war, and not without justification. I have always been demanding of you all in all aspects of proficiency and conduct, I've never accepted excuses for anything but your best performance, and you have never disappointed me. We will now bring that prowess and professionalism to bear on this assignment of great significance. We will acknowledge the unquestionable, historic importance, but we will not allow it to be a distraction. We will all do our jobs with trust in ourselves and our shipmates, and we will prevail. –That's the official pep talk."

"-On a _personal_ level, I invite all of you to look forward with me to sticking a finger in the enemy's eye and giving them the first indication that they picked a fight with the wrong planet. Let's give the enemy a taste of the fight they can expect, and our people at home a reason to know that they have _not_ been abandoned."

"That is all."

"Hey, Opie- you think you have to take additional training when you get a command on giving inspirational speeches?..", asked Tracking Lead, Sensorman 1st Class Thatcher of his friend Petty Officer Orson Cobb, also a "tracking lead", in the row behind him, "-Y'know- _Spinning Suicidal Activities in a Heroic Way_ …."

"Hadn't thought about it, Thatch. Maybe.", Cobb conceded, "Maybe you ought to get a transfer to Doctrine and Training and you can pen that one. At least you'd escape the hum-drum of our everyday…"

The illusion of idle conversation was just that- _illusion_ \- as both petty officers monitored the function of the _Samuels'_ sensor systems as well as the activities of the four trackers each man had subordinate to him through the consoles before them. In the soft blue light of the cramped "sensor shack" off of the starboard side of the main CIC suite, it was a auditory jumble of voices speaking over one another as the tracking teams responsible for each of the ship's four quadrant zones announced contacts and began to compile information from the ship's sensors that allowed each contact to be plotted and positively identified.

On screens that represented energy signals from the low band IR through the ultra-high EM as received by the ship's passive sensory arrays as cascading curtains of granular light, patterns could be seen by a trained eye and well-refined analytical software. These vertical ribbons on the waterfall displays could be further isolated and studied by the trackers, allowing the determination of what was a naturally present energy emission of the cosmos, and what was produced by the technology of a mortal species.

As was expected in the thick hash thrown off from the nearby pulsar star cluster PSR B1259-63 / LS 2883, the energy emissions of the REF vessels deployed as part of Operation Doolittle were faint and immediately obscure. Only scrutiny of an area of space where the _Samuels'_ trackers knew the task force's rallying point to be allowed the other vessels to be located.

It was reassuring to Cobb to know by experience the difficulty his own trackers had in identifying and fixing vessels in the supposed emptiness of space. Even in the "nothingness" there was EM clutter that could shroud a vessel or a fleet from an enemy's searching eyes as easily as the concealment provided to a ship of old by a fog bank.

Invisibility was a better protection than even the sturdiness of the GS-95's robust construction in the sensorman's mind.

The enemy lacked that critical information- lacked even a reasonable clue as to where to begin the search for the REF Fleet. –And even if they had information on a position to search for the REF, study of many a Zentraedi space cruiser had revealed that they lacked the refined sensor systems and analytical sophistication to reliably pluck the signals that identified a foe out of the heavier, radiant energy "noise" of the universe.

In the "hide and seek" game that was the onset of any tactical engagement, the REF had a sound upper-hand, and Cobb was satisfied to be a part of that.

…When it came to trading blows however….

That was another, well-understood matter- but also someone _else's_ responsibility.

"Hey, Ope, track over to zero-three-seven mark three-two-.", Thatcher said in a tone that was occupationally inviting, "-Check it out."

Panning outside of his own assigned quadrant of observation, Cobb tracked over to just off the _Gordon P. Samuels'_ starboard bow and high off the center point with the electronic eyes of the ship.

At first, Cobb only saw hash- the pulse of thousands of individual light granules- until...

Relaxing his eyes, Cobb's trained and experienced mind isolated a thin band of vertical light stream that nearly melted into the substantial chaos of the background – _nearly_.

Switching to the greater focus and scrutiny of a narrow-band analysis of the area, the ribbon presented itself more clearly as something artificial in the void. It was a pattern of reflected and emitted energy that Cobb had not seen before, signifying its identity by the elimination of other possibilities.

" _SDF-3_?"

"That's her.", Thatcher affirmed, "For a girl with such a big ass, she's still got a _nice_ figure-."

Cobb chuckled at Thatcher's summation of what he saw revealed by the _Samuels'_ highly sensitive detection equipment- a masterpiece of minimalistic art as it applied to a ship's radiant energy emissions. Reflected ambient energy, output through the EM bands, even the IR of waste heat, and the peculiar pattern of "bio-ethereal energy" particular to vessels powered by Protoculture-. All were slender for a ship of _SDF-3_ 's dimensions and purported power and abilities.

"-I thought you black guys liked a big ass-?", Cobb replied.

Thatcher hummed his approval, "-And can you see why?"

"- _Nice package._ ", Cobb said with amorous appreciation of technology.

" _Hell-to-the-yes."_ , agreed Thatcher with no less professional lechery.

 _ **SDF-3**_

"Flag, Plot-.", announced the Plotting Officer.

"Final units on station and in fold-jump position, Admiral."

"Copy that.", Vice-Admiral Hayes-Hunter replied from her place at the holographic display table at the center of the Combat Direction Center.

A nearly interchangeable term with _Combat Information Center_ , the term _Combat Direction Center_ was donned to signify that the occupants of the compartment no longer had governance over just the operations of _SDF-3_ , but over the units attached to Hayes-Hunter's flag.

The new vessel's crew at the various duty stations were hand-selected for their skills and were the finest to be found in their disciplines. Pulled from numerous commands, their purpose was to filter and process the torrent of information that flowed to them into the essentials required by Vice-Admiral Hayes-Hunter to manage an engagement, and to then transform her orders into action.

Like the Flag, some of the crew manning the CDC and filling the other billets aboard _SDF-3_ were legacy from the great ship's predecessors, the legendary _SDF-1_ , and notoriously short-lived _SDF-2_ and many like Hayes-Hunter had had input to one degree or another into the design of the new flagship. The former association of these crew members was by no means the determining factor of their selection- but it did not weigh against them.

The vast majority of the crew, 2,817 in total, had no affiliation with _SDF-3_ 's lineage, but only shared in her predecessors' tradition of unwavering dedication and excellence- and a willingness to risk all to realize the vision of the late Admiral Henry J. Gloval set not so many years before.

 _SDF-3_ , after all, had been conceived and constructed with a single purpose in mind.

 _This_ was _not_ that purpose, but it was the function that _SDF-3_ was now being called upon to fill, and she would fill it until she could seize the opportunity to pursue her true destiny.

"Flag, Communications. Text-com received for you encrypted on the Priority VLF band, Admiral."

Captain Hollenkamp gave his superior a puzzled look from across the holographic table, supposing, "-Word that it's all just a big misunderstanding and that the enemy's decided to go home, maybe-?"

Hayes-Hunter laughed dryly, "-If only. Read it, Sparks."

"It says-.", the Communications Officer said clearly, "Good hunting with Fate's favor.- Breetai."

"Well", Hayes-Hunter said to all around her, "We have best wishes from the top, so I guess we can go now."

"Take us to Sol, Hollenkamp."

"Fold Ops, report your status.", Hollenkamp ordered.

"Fold design is locked in, Captain- fold-jump board is green. All stations report ready to execute."

"Start the clock from five.", Hollenkamp said, initiating the final countdown.

"Fold-jump clock counting down from- _Five-. Four. Three. Two. One-._ "

"-Executing fold-jump."

A shimmering orb of pale blue appeared, engulfing entirely the Doolittle Task Force with _SDF-3_ at the center. The spherical membrane of light intensified in its radiance and reduced in translucence until the vessels within would have no longer been visible to the naked eye of observers without.

Unperceivable to mortal senses, two vastly different points in the universe were being drawn together.

Then, with a blinding strobe-flash of the most vivid neon blue, _SDF-3_ and all of Task Force Doolittle vanished from the space they had occupied in the void only a moment before.

 **Ukraine**

In the hours before sunrise the winds had risen in advance of a fast-moving storm front that had left an insignificant few centimeters of fresh snow across a broad swath of the steppe. The wind though had been enough to cause the accumulation of a number of previous storms to creep and drift in dunes of white that added texture to the vast, bleak plains for the few eyes that were out in the frozen wilderness of nothing to behold.

As the sun breeched the line of the horizon, not all of the seeing eyes were of the flesh.

A tireless scout and sentry carried its carbon-composite body scarcely larger than most commercial office printers sure-footedly over the rolling terrain of soft powder on broad, independently driven tracks at the end of four shock-absorbing stalk-legs.

A microwave radar dome atop the odd-looking automaton was dormant for reasons of its own safety. It searched a pre-defined area rather by way of keen electronic eyes that fed images to its sophisticated, yet single-minded computer brain- and to others who may or may not have been watching the real-time video feed of the open winter landscape.

As the UGV carried itself swiftly from point to point on an invisible grid that was only real in its micro-processor mind, it searched all points of the horizon with its tireless electronic eyes that swiveled and bobbed on an articulated neck that kept the video/sensory module on the level despite the irregular motion or stance of the chassis.

Nearing the north end of a leg in its search pattern, the UGV ascended the slope of a snow drift, and as its eyes cleared the summit they came across distant forms that caused the vehicle to immediately pause.

Image recognition software immediately and easily interpreted objects some six kilometers distant as "hostile".

Too large to be concealed by even rises and depressions in the Ukrainian steppe, two Zentraedi Re-Entry Transports were visible to the UGV and were partially concealing a third that did not escape the sentry's notice either.

Not simply tasked with observing the presence of hostile forms, but also with the monitoring the _activity_ of those forms- the UGV began to document and report the movements of the Regult Battle Pods disembarking from the landed transports.

-And there was something else as well.

The UGV's flawless memory filled with the exact details and proportions of thousands of objects, structures, and vehicles both friendly and alien came up blank against the image its eyes provided for identification. Sub-routines ran in the CPU mind that were the artificial approximation of "guessing" when the on-board database failed to identify the anthropomorphic form after several attempts.

"Those are _not_ Quadrano power armor-."

Captain Alexander Cherghuliev grunted his agreement with the gunner's quick but accurate assessment of what he, his commander, and the two other men who crewed the Cavalier tank saw on the thin MFD as they crammed together inside of the turret.

By necessity, the gunner had a quick eye for the kind of details that differentiated similar "friendly" and "hostile" mecha forms such as the omnipresent Regults that were prophesized by war games to compose the bulk of any mechanized Zentraedi ground action and the RDF-Army redesign of the same basic mecha known as the "MBP" series.

In the confusion and chaos of battle with all of its distractions inherent, the gunner's eye and his or her ability to distinguish a friend from a foe was the last safety in the prevention of fratricide. While the MBP elements of the Robotech Defense Force- Army were the most likely to fall victim to "friendly fire", the anthropomorphic mecha of the RDF and ASC were not above the possibility. The Gladiator of the Gen-1 Destroids, and even the vastly smaller Battloids fielded by the Army of the Southern Cross could under the right conditions and at a distance appear like the traditional Zentraedi power armor forms.

No gunner wanted to be the one who sent a depleted uranium sabot round downrange and through something he "thought" to be an enemy. For this reason, visual target recognition was a paramount skill taught to and maintained through endless training by RDF personnel charged with the release of ordinance on the battlefield.

"Hardly matters, I think.", Cherghuliev said, "They are not _ours_."

The video feed from the UGV that was reporting itself to be just under 26 kilometers distant to the southwest jumped as there was a flutter in the InfoLink connectivity that bridged the robot scout to its handlers with the 5th Guards mobile HQ through a high, orbiting UAV.

Under _ideal_ operating conditions, the cadre of intelligence officers supporting the 5th Guards would have already alerted a larger set of their colleagues located somewhere safe and warm of the unanticipated discovery of a new mecha form, and would have been into the preliminary stages of coming up with an observation and information-gathering plan by now.

Cherghuliev knew better than to think that even under the best circumstances that there was anything like _ideal_ conditions- especially in Ukraine in late December.

If he and his men were seeing this, then without a doubt there were countless other units around the world that had seen and had probably been in a better position to document these mysterious additions to a combat force that had been rumored to not have changed in generations.

Cherghuliev knew all that he needed to know already by witness of their presence and their number.

The force being deployed to the southwest was not large enough to be tasked with anything of strategic value, or even of profound significance.

Judging by the fact that all of the swift-footed Regults Cherghuliev was able to see through the field of view afforded by the UGV bore light or heavy missile pods, the captain felt safe in assuming that it was some sort of fast action tactical unit.

There was nothing on the steppes to "act" against though- not for many hundreds of kilometers.

Nothing- with the exception of a mobile Synchro Cannon platform and the units attached to it for its defense.

It was a hunter-killer group, and by definition of his assignment, Cherghuliev was certain that he would become familiar with this enemy by the collision that their conflicting purposes promised.

"Are they here for the cannon, you think?", asked the loader, Avtukhov whose requirement for analytical skill was limited to reading a display that told him the round type desired by the gunner, pulling it, and ramming it home into the gun breech.

– He was brighter than that, of course, but…..

"I'm sure of it.", Cherghuliev replied.

"They must not be able to find us from above.", the driver, Kamkin, guessed as he lifted the crew hatch in the top of the turret just enough to toss out a cigarette he had smoked down to the filter, "Why else land so close and not attack? They can't see us from the sky, so they have to put land forces down to hunt us. –Good luck to them, I say."

" _Bad luck_ , I say.", Cherghuliev countered, "They're going to have the fight they came looking for."

Corporal Kamkin, familiar with the difficulties of navigating the featureless landscape, looked surprised and asked, "You think they'll actually find us in all of this?"

"Yes- _someone_ will find _someone._ ", affirmed Cherghuliev, "-And as quickly as it can happen, I say. Let's see how they deal with their prey turning to hunt them-."

"I'm blaming _you_ for this, Moyrt.", said Point Lieutenant Hyra as the pricking sensation of extreme cold on her face dulled with numbness brought on by the frigid air.

" _Me-_?"

"You."

"How can I _possibly_ be at fault for this?", Moyrt asked, the breastplate hatch of his Nacht-Rau combat suit also swung up to experience the dramatic difference in alien climate from the last location on the planet's surface where the two had last drawn breath of indigenous air.

"My record of service is unmarred and distinguished.", Hyra complained, "You must have done something that keeps getting you sent to these choice locations-. …And _I'm_ dragged along, guilty only of association with you."

"It couldn't be that Action Commander Kevtok requested this assignment and you're under his command, could it?", Point Lieutenant Moyrt suggested.

"No.", rejected Hyra, "I'm sure it's _your_ fault somehow."

Having no feeling left in his face with the exception of the sting of the wind, Moyrt closed the chest-plate hatch of his combat suit and waited impatiently for the heater units to return the temperature to something closer to tolerable.

"-If that's what you need to tell yourself to make it through the day, Hyra-."

Action Commander Kevtok was mildly shocked with his own response of _relief_ as the six Re-Entry Transports that had carried the assault company of Regults to the alien planet's surface drew up their ramps and lifted off again to disappear quickly into the cloudless, blue sky.

For three days his Serhot Ran and the warriors of the supporting Regult unit would be alone on this desolate, open sea of white.

Support of both the combat and logistical types were available at any time from any number of ships in orbit. It required only a call on a specified priority frequency and to provide his mission code, and the resources of The Fleet would be rushing to his assistance.

Kevtok had committed the frequency and the mission code to memory, as had all of his officers and sub-officers, but it had been done out of preparatory obligation.

He and his Serhot Ran were operating now as they should be, as Fate intended them to- _independently._

-As was Kevtok's enemy, wherever he might be.

Fate had put they two into this proximity with the tools and training of Warriors, and _here_ Fate would stand as an unbiased judge as to who would leave this wasteland.

Kevtok had scarcely been aboard Supreme General Krymina's flagship and his base ship, _Artoc_ , for three days. With combat operations already at an open-throttle pace at the time of his return, he and his surviving warriors of the expeditionary force had barely passed medical inspection, walked through a cleansing station, and had a meal before Kevtok had begun to feel the sharp pangs of separation from his prime mandate.

When he had declined promotion on the flagship's flight deck in the presence of superiors and peers, it had been to Kevtok's shame out of _fear_ more than any rational reservation. He had feared finishing his days directing the actions of Warriors from the side of a holographic table- disconnected from what he knew in his core was his path chosen by Fate.

He had declined ascension in the ranks- possibly ensuring that the offer would never come again- and had asked for a mission as a Warrior.

Jekketh, in his half-witted attempt to torment had actually provided Kevtok with exactly what he sought. What Jekketh saw as exile, Kevtok embraced as opportunity.

He, and another warrior- an _alien_ warrior whom he had not yet met- would soon begin the jabbing, slashing, and grappling that was at the center of their existence until only one remained standing.

Without reservation, Kevtok looked forward to that meeting.

"Let's begin.", Kevtok said to his unit commanders in a way that probably came across and unexpectedly casual, though in truth it was anything but.

"Deploy into a linear-sweep formation- north to south- out to twenty-five atohls, maximum dispersal. Point Lieutenant Brak, I want your unit divided and forming the north and south elements of the line- Serhot Ran will take the center. We'll then sweep east. Report and engage any enemy units upon contact. Move out."

Brak, boldly but not insubordinately asked before obeying, "How do we know they're to the east, Lord?"

"We don't, but we're well west of the general area from which the last beam was fired. East is the direction we should go. I'm either right, or I am not. And I doubt our arrival has been unnoticed. He may even bring the fight to us."

"After their Fleet fled and defenses folded, Lord?- You may be crediting them with too much courage."

Kevtok replied with certainty, "-No… You are not crediting them with _enough_. Be ready."

"For what, Lord?"

" _Anything_."

 **RDF Edwards AFB**

The wing briefing room, the largest interiors space on Edwards sanctioned for the open disclosure and discussion of classified information was filled to capacity with pilots and crew whose insignia crossed the entire spectrum of military flight occupational specialties.

The air smelled of strong coffee beneath the prevailing haze of cigarettes whose prohibition in the room had been temporarily waved- ore more accurately was being _ignored_ \- under the circumstances. Despite "Go Pills", and the more mainstream stimulants of caffeine and nicotine, fatigue and exhaustion was beginning to peek through cracks in practiced stoic appearances. Relentless sorties (although many flights had not resulted in a shot fired despite an enormous enemy presence) over an area too vast for far too few to cover was showing itself now.

The RDF-AF units represented in the room were at no risk of breaking- far from it- but an understanding of days to come was beginning to settle over all as the initial rush of battle melted away. The air crews understood that there would be many chances to justifiably imperil themselves in the not-so-distant future.

It was going to be a long, grueling war.

Major General Butler, acting NORAMWEST until the rightly anticipated paperwork made his command official, was present and in a rare departure from his many duties was conducting the briefing for this hole-riddled operation himself.

The overhead lighting was dimmed only enough to allow the effective function of holographic displays lest the dark and comfortably maintained climate aide the Sandman in his work on the gathered personnel.

Butler paused in his briefing long enough to allow the map to change and for his pilots to finish jotting down notes on the last navigational details presented.

Basing his judgment of adequate time on his experience during time spent on the receiving end of briefings as a pilot numerous years before, Butler resumed speaking again with his visual aids in step.

The navigational plot projection took the movement of NORAMWEST's forces southeast from Edwards, skirting the fringes of The Outlands before a turn due south, west of Mexicali that would put the composite flight of vastly varied aircraft and their units quickly over the Gulf of California. While far from _secure_ , the indirect path did keep the flight at a distance from population centers that were still and would for some time be in the process of evacuation to the north. As much as possible, what remained of RDF Command did not want to invite confrontations with the enemy in the vicinity of civilian evacuees.

For the same reason, the contingent from the formidable yet more sparsely dispersed ALCANWEST command were being forced to fly a split, less direct, and more tenuous flight plan from their bases to the projected RDF rallying point.

While the composite wings from ALCANWEST's eastern bases would travel exclusively inland until the rallying point, avoiding as NORAMWEST would areas of civilian population- the western commands would have to traverse the open North Pacific for a distance before hugging the California and Mexican coasts to just south of Ensenada before crossing the Baja Peninsula and joining.

It was a plan embraced as much because it would allow the bulk of RDF forces being transferred from the northern commands into ASC territory to the south to begin their movements as soon as possible as being a plan that did not consolidate the forces until late in their movements. Three independent forces in movement were less likely to be fixed upon by the enemy, and if discovered would divide the enemy's attention and forces sent to engage it.

-A good plan, or at least no worse than any other that could be drafted in such a short period of time.

"-Rallying will take place at this point, _Pancho_ , east of Valle de los Cirios. The course from this waypoint will be southwest over the Gulf of California and Sea of Cortez until we reach Waypoint _Cisco_ , west of Sinaloa. At _Cisco_ it is a left turn toward Durango and Waypoint _Esperanza_ \- at which point, ladies and gentlemen we are officially in the ASC's sandbox and will receive direction from their flight control."

Butler paused, allowing the grumbles of discontent to pass. He was less than pleased personally to cede control to The Army of the Southern Cross, even though it would be for the shortest leg of transit.

Butler's- _the RDF's_ \- obligation was to fight the enemy however, and it was becoming clear that the best place to meet the enemy was within ASC territory.

This necessitated the distasteful bowing to the ASC's authority in some things.

When the pilots had griped enough to feel they had been heard, Butler ended the uniform expression of discontent by continuing with his briefing.

"-We will be under ASC ground control for routing, but we will still retain tactical control for our defense and still be flying under the watch of AWACS. RDF missile batteries are already moving into place as far south on the peninsula as La Paz, so we will have friendly missile support almost the entire way into Durango- or _Oasis_ , as it will be operationally named."

The mass grouse at ASC governance resumed and was punctuated by a few laughs in the darkened region of the audience that Butler knew to be occupied by Knight Hawk Squadron. He had made a point of taking notice of where his motley unit of misanthropes and dystopian prototypes had slumped into seats before the lights had dimmed- anticipating correctly that the loudest protest would come from those with the most recently acquired axe to grind with the Army of the Southern Cross.

"-Am I missing something amusing about this, Jack?", Butler asked, knowing without hearing it directly that the squadron commander was almost certainly the precipitator of the laughter-effect.

"Not at all, sir-.", Winters replied, unaffected by being called out directly, "We're eager and looking forward to another stellar collaboration with our ASC brethren. –In the Cain and Abel tradition, naturally…"

Having drawn out the underlying suspicion he knew his pilots to have because in truth he had them as well, Butler called attention to the elephant in the room.

"Yes, it _will_ be a stellar collaboration, Jack- because we _all_ are going to make it that way."

Butler made use of the nearby briefing podium as a rest for his elbow to speak as a sports team coach might before a difficult game, coming across both earnest and paternal.

"-Okay, we're all thinking it, so we're going to say it. -Get it out in the open, deal with it, and move on-."

"No one here is a huge fan of the Army of the Southern Cross. At best, they've been tense allies. Normally they have been competitors and unashamed empire-builders. And at their _worst_ they've been-."

" _Manipulative, murdering assholes-._ ", Lt Col Dalton volunteered as though Winters' second voice.

"-Yes, we'll go with that- thank you, Buster.", Butler allowed, "-And a week ago I would have more readily believed that we would be fighting _them_ than the war we have to wage now. –But here we are. Them's the breaks."

"The fight in this hemisphere is forming up in the ASC's playground, so that's where we're going, and _that_ for the time-being gives the ASC strategic command under Operational Initiative Gemini. –Also _the breaks_."

"And I don't think that I have to remind anyone here that as unsure as we're all feeling about this, there are ASC troops, pilots, officers and the civilians in the AO who are equally uncertain."

"This makes the whole proposition a potential powder keg, and _we are still going to make it work_ , people.", Butler asserted with no latitude for misunderstanding, "The REF has been taking the lion's share of military production, and they aren't here right now- so _we_ cannot win this alone. The ASC has been systematically clipped like a weed and kept from growing larger than the borders it occupies, so _they_ cannot win this alone either. And so, that means we're in it _together._ Again, _the breaks._ Right now, people, these are the lemons that we have to make lemonade out of."

"Enough of the motivational oratory-.", Butler concluded, transitioning back to the main business of briefing the move to the new AO, "EW units will give us an umbrella from orbiting cruisers. Attack and fighter squadrons will be armed for engagement in all three spheres- long range to knife-fight close. I don't think that I need to point out however that the best hope is that we make this move without having to fire a shot."

"Our primary responsibility is to move ourselves and the transports we'll be escorting to Durango without loss. Everyone and every piece of equipment from this moment on is a _mission-critical asset_ \- so there will be no poking of the hornet's nest if a fight can be avoided."

"Specific assignments will be handed down shortly. For now, let's get into review of Intel-projected hot spots and areas of enemy strength-."

Senior Tech Sergeant Lyle DeVeo had supreme confidence in himself that he could glare with the best of them. His mother, a true "fire and brimstone" Baptist had been the reigning Oklahoma champion of "the stare" and a worthy national contender for most of his formative years, and some of the skill had rubbed off by exposure.

An MP charged with standing watch over a closed door was not going to best him.

Of course in hindsight it had been of little goal-oriented value and of questionable wisdom that the Plane Captain for the 623rd Squadron had called the armed corporal a "dim-witted drone" who was "giving his all for the enemy's war effort" -.

But it had been gratifying at the time.

So now, Lyle sat on a couch that was more decorative than functional as the MP stood by the door through which the senior NCO had been denied passage as they glared holes through one another.

As the double-doors to the briefing room flung open much the way the doors of a school might following the dismissal bell on the last day of classes before summer, Lyle was delighted to see the corporal start- caught surprised by the eruption of pilots in his effort to defend them from the support personnel.

Conversations involved every set of lips and ear as the torrent of officers moved with urgency through the hall toward the exit of the command building.

In the flood of pilots, it would have been easy and understandable had Lyle missed his quarry, but with a bird-hunter's eyes it took only a glimpse of Winters bobbing through a sea of other faces for Lyle to acquire and track him.

The plane captain whistled shrilly and powerfully, a skill honed in noisy maintenance hangars and on active flight lines that penetrated easily the din of scores of simultaneous conversations.

Winters, as familiar with the whistle as he was with the voice of anyone under his command acknowledged Lyle with a small nod and began to fight against the current of his peers with a good portion of his squadron in trail.

"We found Roxanna and Rio!..", Lyle said, rising up on his toes to shout in the taller Winters' ear- another habit of communicating on the flight line that was perhaps not as needed in their surroundings.

Winters scowled, almost masking panic with displeasure as he railed back at the plane captain, "What the bloody Christ do you mean, _found_?.."

Lyle, understanding instantly his grievously poor choice of a normally innocuous word shook his head dismissive of where the squadron leader's mind was clearly going, "Naw, it ain' like that, Jack-. They done popped up under their own steam."

Winters, true to his ability to cling to a foul mood once in it, demanded, "Popped up _where?_ "

"Evacuee collection point, Muroc High School, Roxanna said- or so Ah'm told…", Lyle replied.

"- _Or so you're told?.._ "

"Whell- Foster, the Vigilantes' plane captain got the call because it got routed to the wrong HAS by the coms center from a driver in town who got it from a squad leader who was helpin' to organize-."

Winters nodded his understanding of the complexity in the chain of communication that had brought him the critical message, "-You remember all that and still you're cutting the padlock off your locker twice a month because you've forgotten the combination?- You're amazing, Lyle."

"-But the news's solid.", Lyle countered, "Ah wouldn't'a-."

"No, I trust you-.", Winters said glancing hastily around and his voice sounding now of another kind of panic, "Good man, Lyle-. Off with you- you're prepping us and packing for Mexico."

"No sheeyt?- We're doin' it, huh?"

"No shit.", Winters replied, "Freddy, I've got to step into town for a few minutes-. You have the squadron. See that the chaps pack their toothbrushes and clean socks-."

Winters did not have to push or cut in on the procession of pilots heading out the door to make the pace he wanted- all were hurried, but not all for Winters' reason.

Dalton, who had gone from concerned at the sight of the plane captain waiting outside of the briefing room to relieved at hearing his news was instantly back to concerned, bordering on rattled.

"Jack, are you kidding?- We're wheels-up in like.. _five hours_ , and you want to leave post that's locked down to wade through a city full of civilian evacuees?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Does _dereliction of duty_ ring any bells?"

"Yes, but a _derelict_ is idle- I'm going somewhere."

An almost equal mix of A and B Flights was close on the CO and XO's heels, enthralled with the juiciness of operating regulations and procedures being violated.

Dalton abandoned the argument, "Fine, I'm going with you then."

"No, I need you in command when I'm gone- doing all of those things I'm awful at-."

"Like _prioritizing, organizing,_ and _commanding?_.."

"See, we're on the same page- that's why we're such a great team-.", Winters said as the command building's entrance gave way to the night air that had grown cold quickly. He was looking for a cigarette before he had reached the walkway from the stairs and found he had none of his own.

"So, I'm in command?", Dalton confirmed, handing Winters the cigarettes he carried for them both habitually.

"That _was_ the general motion- _yes_."

"Swell.", Dalton conceded, concluding that struggle, " _Command call-_ Vice, you're in charge until Jack and I get back-."

" _Me?_ ", Vincenz stammered like the chicken picked from the pen for dinner, "Why me?"

"Because _that's_ how the chain of command works-.", Dalton answered matter-of-factly, "-Jack shrugs responsibility off on me, I shrug it off onto you-. So on and so on. And besides, no one takes Preacher seriously when he gives orders-."

"Hey, _I'm right here_ you know!..", Major Wayne protested without arguing the offensive statement.

Winters had tuned out the back-and-forth that were the diminishing ripples of his original act of delegation. His mind was beyond that now.

 _Now_ he needed transportation.

 **Brasilia**

"Perimeter is established and secured, sir-.", Lt Gifford of 1st Platoon reported to Nguyen, "Harris and Fuller are nested topside, OP, and we've got eyes looking off all four courners."

Captain Nguyen nodded his approval as he removed his helmet, signaling to his subordinates that it was permitted for them to do the same.

The steel frame, corrugated aluminum sheet building that Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh and his Gurkhas had brought the Rangers to had clearly been some kind of commercial truck terminal in the times when Brasilia had been a functioning city.

The room that had once been a drivers' lounge with a smaller adjoining dormitory was still fairly untouched by conflict and intrusion by the elements. Most alluring of the lounge's attributes were the couches and chairs of industrial-grade construction with their unapologetically ugly cushions of burnt orange that were grouped as to form a large "S" through the room's center.

To the eyes of those who had been either in combat, on the mover, or just out on the land for days the colossal interior decorating _faux pas_ that was this room of tope walls and tropically colored appointments looked to be a deluxe suite in a swanky hotel.

"So", Nguyen said with distinct informality as he indulged in sitting on the padded arm of a couch. Knees worn by years of active service but kept from failing by an iron resolve and tungsten constitution fired off pistol shots as they bent to transfer the load of the captain's weight to the furniture.

"-What can you tell us, Naib Subedar?"

There was no need to be more specific.

The other Rangers under Nguyen's command took his example as permission to similarly rest themselves in the best comfort they had known in what felt to all like an eternity.

Singh drew his full beard through his hand thoughtfully as he spoke.

"I can hardly give you a full report, Captain, but you can imagine-. My platoon was assigned to an OP in the Federal District to monitor for possible malcontent return or residual activity when the orbital attack took place."

"We did not see the first Zentraedi mecha unit until this morning- a reinforced Battle Pod company I would say. We observed a reduced Gladiator unit coming out to engage them, but they were quickly overwhelmed by a combination of Gnerls and power armor of some kind-."

Nguyen, despite obvious weariness from his own ordeals of the preceding 48 hours picked up on the uncertainty in Singh's description of the alien combat suits.

"Male or female? - The suits?"

Singh shook his head as though trying to reconcile the inconsistencies of a memory, but answered with certainty, "Neither. They were of _Queadlunn-Rau_ form, _mostly_ \- and demonstrated the same basic operational capabilities- flight mainly-. But they were _not_ standard Quadrano combat suits. They had visible additions to the standard weaponry. –It's a detail that I'm certain has a higher significance- but for the engagement yesterday it just added to the slaughter. Our Destroids were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and woefully outmatched-."

" _..No kill like overkill…_ ", Whilite heard escape his lips before he could catch the recitation of the unit motto he had seen emblazoned on the armored bodies of "Gator" Company's Gladiators.

Disparaging looks from his senior officer, peers and subordinates affirmed his realization of his poor timing.

"-Sorry…"

Corporal Craig, the medic from Echo Company's 1st Platoon, whose _soldier's soldier_ air and physically robust appearance did not quite mesh with the merciful nature of his primary occupation created a slight deviation in topic when he asked-

"What about your men?"

Singh's expression soured visibly as with resignation to some unforgivable failure.

"Fifteen casualties initially- radiation burns and exposure from the orbital attack- all serious. When we had been unable to re-establish communications with Homestead, I sent Havidar Roth with a detachment of three riflemen back to base before first light to arrange for medical extraction for my wounded- or to at least bring back medical supplies. When his squad had not returned by mid-afternoon, I took the Gurkhas you see here to find them if possible and to complete their task if we could not."

Nguyen saw that Craig's interest was with the specifics of his MOS, so he pursued the uncomfortable questions for the corporal lest he sound as though he were interrogating a superior.

"Your wounded are with your medic?"

"My medic _is_ one of my wounded.", Singh stated bleakly, "They are under the care of one of my uninjured riflemen who was being groomed as an unofficial understudy of sorts. There is very little that can be done though, I fear. The radiation exposure was quite severe. Medical treatment beyond making them comfortable may be moot."

Craig interjected, respectfully but willfully, "-Maybe, but I still want to have a look at `em. –Captain?.."

Nguyen nodded his approval, "Take Rodriguez and Fields with you-. Singh, will you detach one of yours to lead my medic back to your OP?"

Singh nodded, "Of course, sir-. Your man should go through the supplies we secured from Homestead- I doubt he has all he might need in his ruck."

Nguyen motioned Craig in the direction of the two Gurkha riflemen who were already opening their packs for the medic's inspection of their contents.

"You did make it onto Homestead then?", Nguyen asked, removing a waterproof cigarette case from a cargo pouch on his carrying rig and offering one to Singh.

"Yes sir.", Singh replied while declining the offered cigarette, "There were a lot of dead, and there was significant structural damage to all of the buildings- but at the time we were on post, there was no Zentraedi presence- malcontent or regulars. On the strong chance that we would be residents of Brasilia for some time, we cached what ammunition, food, and medical supplies we could conceal quickly before starting back for our OP. You know the rest."

Nguyen took in Singh's words without comment, having lit a cigarette for himself. The air in the lounge quickly grew hazy with smoke- smoking being a vice strictly prohibited by regulations and by Captain Nguyen while on the creep. Now though, with a reasonably sound enclosure to prevent the distinctive and pervasive odor of cigarettes from entering the wind- Nguyen allowed a relaxation of the rules.

"Food and medical supplies?", 1st Platoon's Lt Gifford asked, "-That close to a particle beam impact, are you sure you want to be taking chances with putting any of that into your body?"

"The impact wasn't as near to Homestead as you may think-.", Singh informed Gifford and the other Rangers, "Close enough to cause damage, but the base's stores are still intact- if not a little tossed."

"Medical supplies are shipped in NBC-impervious cases.", Gifford's medic Craig pointed out in support of Singh's broader statement, "Same-same with MREs, which also have NBC-resistant outer wrappers. No, so long as the cases aren't broken and the packaging not torn, we should have a mountain of usable medical supplies and food. –What doesn't need to be refrigerated anyway…"

"Well, we can't take a mountain of food or medicine with us.", Gifford noted, "-But we can carry enough to give us the reach to an extraction point- once we've gotten word to someone to extract us, of course-."

Captain Nguyen shot a curious look at his 1st Platoon lieutenant, "Who said we were looking for an extraction?"

Expressions blanked all around the senior Ranger as unconfirmed assumptions were dashed with a single rhetorical question.

Gifford was cautious as he said, "-Sir, I'm not tracking on exactly what you're thinking we're going to be able to do here-. The dittos have been bringing transports down constantly since we've had eyes on the area. By now they've got to have thousands of boots on the ground, plus mecha. We've got a company of Rangers, small arms, and no mecha. At best, that's the very shitty end of the stick, sir."

Nguyen sighed heavily, looking as one coming to grips with the realization of a great burden laying ahead.

" _This_ is our assigned AOR. We are here, and the _enemy_ is here. _This_ is where we enter this war. It would be no better anywhere else we would go. I doubt there is anywhere on the planet where we hold the upper hand today."

"-And you have Gurkhas.", Singh reminded Nguyen, "-We're few, but fierce."

"Amen to that.", Whilite affirmed.

Singh acknowledged the compliment with a nod, continuing at the same time with, "-And we have Cyclones. We can't muster a force to meet their mecha in a head-to-head battle, but used _correctly_ -. Used correctly, can make an _impression_."

Nguyen's expression was distant and thoughtful, like a chess master who was planning his strategy twenty moves out.

"We don't have the upper hand here, that is for certain- but we do have certain advantages."

"The enemy is landing, but they are failing to adequately secure the area. Naib Subedar Singh has seen it for himself, they've ignored an enormous stockpile of weapons and supplies that could be used to resist them. They're clearly inexperienced with occupation operations. If they're overlooking one threat, who's to say what else they're blind to?"

"-Lieutenant Gifford is right that we're not going to be able to defeat the enemy in Brasilia and drive him out-. But we _can_ harass him, we _can_ disrupt his activities and impede his operations. –We're Rangers, after all- that's what we do."

" _H'yup_ , sir.", Gifford affirmed followed by the same utterance from the other Rangers present.

" _H'yup!_ "

Nguyen tossed his cigarette to the floor and ground it out under his boot toe as he rose, "Good then. I'm taking two men to return to the company and bring them in. Gifford, you are in command until I return. I suggest you begin your reconnoiter now."

"Reconnoiter for what, sir?", Lt Gifford asked for clarification.

" _Everything_.", Nguyen replied, "-A base of operations and at least one alternate. We'll also need caches for as many supplies as we can move. Naib Subedar Singh should be able to assist greatly with both."

"Once we're situated, then we can begin to bring the fear to the enemy."

At once all were in motion, visibly reinvigorated by a plan of action and the prospect of being on the offensive again.

Nguyen motioned to two of his enlisted to accompany him in retrieving the rest of Echo Company. Putting his helmet back on and shouldering his rifle, Nguyen tapped the microphone to his radio headset saying to Gifford, "Monitor tac-channel 9 on the hour for radio contact. Avoid the enemy when possible- let's not tip our hats until we have to. I don't want them to know we're here in Brasilia- _yet._ "

 **Yellowstone City**

The leaden, pulsing ache of a heartfelt sobbing fit trying to find its way to the surface pressed forcefully against the back of Weitzel's eyes, cheekbones, and temples as it searched relentlessly for a crack to exploit.

The doctor- a young man of vaguely Asian features who looked aged by nonstop activity- stood nearby as Weitzel sifted through the small box of personal effects he had brought her and managed to appear sympathetic to its effects on his patient.

"-For whatever comfort it's worth, I'm told by the team that received the body that there was no sign that he suffered at all.", the doctor said vacantly, "-For what it's worth-."

Weitzel found beneath a crudely removed cloth panel of campaign ribbons a bent pair of ugly, military-issue frame, utility eyeglasses whose acrylic lenses were cracked and clouded by scratches and which had been subjected to some great and unknown brutality.

The pressure behind Weitzel's face found the gap, the hairline fracture it needed to escape, and the cascade of tears began over short catches of breath.

The young doctor, of no fault of his own, appeared instantly uncomfortable and slightly annoyed by the display. He had no doubt had to participate in this exact same scene innumerable times in the past day, and the emotional toll was showing.

A handsome but not ostentatious watch, a cigarette lighter, the brigadier general's stars from Shiloah's uniform, and a man's gold wedding band whose Hebrew inscriptions were faded by years of wear completed the contents of the box.

Weitzel allowed herself a half-dozen deep sobs that shook her frame and renewed the pulsing ache at the stump of her leg- but it was a purging action. It would come again, she knew- it was right that it should come again- but enough of the fog had cleared for her to communicate coherently.

"He has- _had_ \- a wife who will want these things back.", Weitzel said, repacking the small box that syringes had been packaged in for shipping and storage. The eyeglasses that had framed bright and penetrating eyes for so long were the last to be returned.

"-I should try to contact her-."

The doctor looked hesitant, saying after a moment's consideration, "That's going to be tough, Commander. Civilian communications are down still, and even if there _weren't_ Zentraedi stomping all over the city, you'd still be in no condition to set out looking for anyone."

It might have been that Weitzel's mind required a distraction from loss and things that she could not control, or perhaps it was the sense of duty that her time in the Service had instilled and that she also carried naturally with her- but the doctor's quashing her inclination to reach out to Paula Shiloah on the sad occasion of her widowing contained other elements that caught her attention.

"How many Zentraedi, and what are they doing?"

The doctor looked puzzled as though the question had come to him in Swahili, but he replied without malice, saying, "-I couldn't really say, I've got a number of irons in the fire here myself, so-."

"Who would know?"

The doctor's expression turned speculative as he indulged in what was also a welcome change to the cycle of thoughts and activities he had been engaged in, "-Well, there's a regular stream of uniforms through here- bringing wounded mostly. One of them might be able to answer your questions better than me."

Weitzel felt her energy begin to desert her- no doubt a direct effect of her amputation and the beginnings of her recovery, and with contributions from the pain medications and psychological traumas-. Even the attempt to understand the exhaustion she was feeling in its onset contributed to the condition. Weitzel was satisfied to let it have its way for now- planning at the same time how she would use her next brief spurt of energy.

She would surrender a little now to gain later- but one more detail was important, and was one that she felt was bringing her full circle.

"Can I hold on to Ephraim's things?- Until I can return them to his wife, I mean."

The doctor nodded his approval, "Sure, I don't see why not. We have more of those little boxes than we know what to do with. – _Just too many_ …."

The doctor noticed mid-lament that Weitzel had already drifted off, leaving him speaking to himself and with a strong and sudden envy.

He had _many_ other patients to attend to, and it would be a good, long time before he could submit to his own urgent need for sleep.

 **Edwards City**

"- _Jesus, Jack-._ ", Dalton muttered in despairing disbelief as the rover "borrowed" from base rolled at length to a halt within sight of Muroc High School whose parking lot was illuminated like a professional sporting event, courtesy of portable flood lights and generators from one of Edwards' resident engineer units.

"- _No way_ are we finding Rio and Roxanna in this madhouse…"

Without admitting as much, Winters saw Dalton's point clearly- it could not be missed.

Beyond the brilliant illumination contrasting starkly the dark, desert night, the likeness to a sporting event was furthered by the dense congregation of people massing on the grounds of one of the small city's two high schools. Congregations swelled on the schools lawns, on its approaching sidewalks, and in its front courtyard, all spilling into one another to form in essence a blanket of milling humanity. Additionally, the outdoor mass of people was being joined in slow and steady progression by a flow exiting the school itself from all of the structure's visible doors.

Though shapeless, the mob had a discernable common direction of movement to it- gradual as it was. A line of wheeled vehicles, military and civilian, of all sizes from school and public transportation buses, troop-transport converted 8/4s, down to commercial vans and shuttles filled the parking lots and stretched back into the street.

"We won't if we don't try, Freddy.", Winters said, his voice sounding aware of the improbability of success as he slid out of the rover's passenger seat .

Dalton found himself losing sight of Winters in the crowd before he could even get his door open. As he took up pursuit of the squadron commander, he made certain that the key to the land rover was secure in the buttoned cargo pocket of his leather aviator's jacket. There was a tense order here, but if there was ever a place where a carelessly unattended vehicle could be taken- this was it.

-And Dalton did not want to have to explain to a motor pool sergeant how he had managed to lose a vehicle he had taken without permission.

Winters pressed through the crowd with much the same kind of constant resistance as he would have faced wading into a slow current of waist-deep water. Even as the crowd closed around him in his immediate wake, he was still cautious to keep Dalton somewhere in trail. Finding the pair they had come here to recover was to be time-consuming enough, Winters knew he did not have the time to find both them and Dalton if they were to become separated.

As he pushed on toward what appeared to be the focal point of all activity, Winters muttered the same pleasantries that courtesy demanded when one moved through a crowd under normal circumstances. Soon the pilot was aware that the civilians around him were paying no more attention to his utterings of "excuse me", and "pardon me", than he was of saying them. He would continue though, lest he shrug past that one individual to whom it would be the final straw that would demand a confrontation.

-And in a crowd this size, that kind of single spark could easily start a blaze.

Winters continued to beg forgiveness for muscling through the throngs ofcivilians patiently waiting for evacuation. As he moved he made an effort to see every face without making eye contact and succeeded in seeing perhaps one face in three.

None of the faces were the two he was looking for.

There were similarities in each face that Winters glimpsed though- a commonality. There was exhaustion, anxiety, and a fear that hovered just beneath the surface of each wearied face. Those who could clearly remember the trauma of losing the _world before_ to the last Robotech War showed it most acutely. It was the fear of horrible _Déjà vu_ , and of the failed promises from Government and selves of _never again_.

Foreboding gnawed relentlessly at all clearly as it did in times of crisis, but Winters felt a particular kinship and could easily pick out those who actually _knew._

The knot in Winters' belly that had formed the moment he'd learned Rio and Roxanna were not among the families of the other pilots was growing and tightening again as the task of finding them began to take on a distinct feeling of futility.

Through a break in the crowd as one in the water might see another through the parting of swells, Winters glimpsed the first uniform he'd seen on site so far. A bewildered enlistedman continued to motion those around him toward the school's front courtyard and was given as much regard as the sign he stood beside that read, ironically, "SCHOOL ZONE- NO STANDING OR LOITERING!"

" _Private!-._ ", Winters yelled with a following, shrill whistle over the general noise and commotion common to any crowd.

The enlisted man's attention was captured and swung to Winters with an air of gratitude. At first the officer thought that he might have been mistaken somehow by the private as some kind of relief or replacement, but with his flight suit and aviator's jacket, and particularly his worn, leather wheel cap with its lieutenant colonel's oak leaves it seemed improbable.

As the young man noticeably less than half Winters' age saluted dutifully, it became clear that his relief came from the distraction that Winters was providing from being completely overwhelmed in whatever task he had been assigned.

Winters returned the salute, saying as he did, "Private, I'm looking for someone who I was told turned up at this evacuation point-. How would I go about finding her?"

Any relief that the enlistedman may have been feeling deserted him as he was confronted by a question whose answer was more complex than the asker had anticipated.

"- _You're shittin' me_ , right, Colonel?"

"Afraid not.", Winters said soberly, "Who's running this detail?"

The private waved vaguely toward the courtyard at the front of Muroc High School, saying, "That'd be Captain Morris, sir-. She's set up with the senior NCOs by the flagpole to get a count and list of civilians so there'd be a tally to compare to when they got to Bakersfield. –No use though-. There are just too many and it was taking too much time to get `em all on the transports. Last I heard, they were just taking names as they got on the vehicles."

"So this Captain Morris is in charge?", Winters clarified, ignoring the details of the chaos he had expected to encounter.

"Yes sir, Colonel- if you can call it that.", the private affirmed, "- _If_ your someone is on a list, that's where you _might_ be able to find out where in this mess to find her-."

"It's that kind of a war, Private- _learn to love it_.", Winters said making a faint gesture of a salute as he parted company with the young man and began to press forward into the crowd again- only this time with a certain sense of destination.

Winters pause to confer with the private had given Dalton the time to close the distance with him, and now allowed him to move as a wingman of sorts to his equally earthbound element lead.

"What time are they supposed to be pulling out, Jack?- The civvies, I mean-."

"Zero-four hundred, I thought-.", Winters replied, "Or so I seem to remember hearing."

Despite his family being among the lesser number of fortunate civilians who would be evacuated from Edwards, Dalton still sounded horrorstruck as he surveyed the scene about him and said, "- _No way_ they're getting all of these people onto buses and moving by zero-four…"

"A little louder, Freddy-.", Winters growled over his shoulder, "-There might have been a frightened person or two out of the thousands around who didn't hear that-."

" _Sorry-._ ", Dalton said sheepishly, clearly apologetic to both Winters and the mass of civilians through which they were slogging. The apology was lost on the latter though as each face was more or less a copy of the same numbed expression and seemingly oblivious to all around it but to move as one of the crowd.

It took the two pilots an additional three minutes to enter the school's outer courtyard through the crowd of civilians that grew more densely packed with each step and another three before they had eyes on the area around the flagpole that the private had alluded to.

Searching in the general area, Winters did catch a glance of a form in body armor at the center of a cluster of other forms in body armor that had an air of authority about it. Robbed of any clear means of gender identification by the individual's protective gear, Winters was satisfied to trust his instinct.

" _Captain Morris!-."_ , Winters bellowed through cupped hands over the heads and bodies of the hundreds between he and the object of the call.

There was a response- the helmeted head coming around to find the source of the call, revealing finer female facial features that showed recognition of the hail, and more importantly that it was coming from a senior officer.

It was a maddening lapse of time before the two officers could force themselves to a meeting point between them.

Obligatory salutes were traded, and before Winters' hand dropped from his brow the Army officer charged with the impossible task around them was looking both confused and distraught.

"-You're not here to reinforce, I take it, sir?"

"I'm not even good moral support, Captain.", Winters apologized hollowly, "-I'm here to throw you a bit of a poser. I'm looking for two particular civilians-."

Morris's eyes bugged slightly in disbelief, looking very white in contrast to the tanned skin of her face, "- _You're shittin' me, right?-._ "

"-I'm getting that a lot this morning, Captain.", Winters replied with thinning patince, and then continued, "-I'm looking for a young woman, late-twenties, Latina in appearance, long black hair that she's wearing over half of her face-. The other is white, fiftyish, dyed ginger-blonde hair, probably too much make-up, and enough attitude that you'd remember her."

"-They don't sound familiar to me, but look around you, Colonel-.", the Captain explained, "Names?- Maybe one of the-."

"-Captain-.", interrupted a first sergeant wearing the same unit patch as the captain, "-That sounds like _crazy cat-lady_ …"

Winters leapt on the promising lead, "-She didn't talk?"

"From what I told, it didn't sound like she could- but the other one made up for it.", said the sergeant.

" _That's_ them.", Winters said, feeling the knot in his belly relax slightly, "And I'm recommending you for sergeant major, Sergeant-."

"-You get `em with any emergency relocation of people, sir.", explained the sergeant who had acquired the name, Hoyt, as he led Winters and Dalton through a corridor of the school just off of the main entrance.

Classrooms had been set up for those who required transport but who could not be expected to stand in the crowds for a prolonged period- the elderly, mothers with infants or very young children. The school's infirmary had been opened for the most extreme cases of individuals with medical needs who were not hospitalized at the time that the call for evacuation had been made.

Winters and Dalton were led around a corner into another hall where two privates stood guard over closed classroom doors that clearly had people behind them.

"-Troublemakers.", Hoyt continued with his explanation as he motioned to the shut doors, "Some people show up drunk and disorderly, some figure they can run the evacuation better than us and take it upon themselves to form bands of followers…"

Hoyt reached a door that had the unspoken indications of being their destination.

"- _Others_ are just _uncooperative_."

"You have _no_ idea, Sergeant.", Winters commiserated as the sergeant unlocked the door.

"-They're all going to be evacuated, of course-.", Hoyt explained as though Winters harbored some belief that civilian refugees were intentionally to be left in a hazardous area, "-But the problem cases have to be taken out of general circulation and moved separately. Even minor disruptions can lead to panic when a lot of people are under stress."

As Hoyt opened the classroom door, a human form, slight of build and small in stature exploded with volcanic force from the darkness nearly knocking the far larger Winters off of his feet as arms wrapped around his midsection in a clumsy hug-tackle.

"This is _her_ , I assume, sir?", Hoyt asked, looking more startled than the lieutenant colonel who was still struggling for balance.

Winters felt the shakes coming on as he put hands on the wild mass of hair and the head beneath that was pressing into his ribcage.

"-That's one.", Winters said.

Roxanna sauntered out of the same darkened room in much the same way that the pilots had seen her come out from behind the bar of her own establishment many times- as undisputed and unashamed master of her environment.

"-The cavalry is supposed to show up _in_ the nick of time, you know-."

"That's _two._ ", Dalton said as Roxanna handed him a faded, olive-drab military rucksack that predated the century and was stuffed to the bulging point.

Roxanna did not surrender however another hand-held, plastic case with a wire-cage front to it, from behind which a single cat eye in a gaunt, tabby face peered out meekly.

That was _three._

Winters saw the cage carried by Roxanna and immediately understood the sequence of events following his squadron's parting of ways from their families and rush back to base early the morning before.

The relaxing stress knot in his gut turned fiery, and began to blaze-.

" _You went back for THE FUCKING CAT?!.."_ , Winters raged, prying Rio's arms off of his middle, perhaps a little too forcefully and opened a space between them with a good shove.

No stranger to violence in her life, Rio stood her ground – her eye that was unobstructed by the constant and strategic veil of hair pleaded for forgiveness, but showed a tough acceptance of whatever might come next.

Winters appeared every bit the disciplinarian as he slashed at the air with an extended hand and forefinger. Clenched teeth clearly held back the torrent of obscenities that were rattling around behind them.

".. _For the fucking cat?!.._ "

Without apology, Roxanna elaborated on the obvious motivations with, "Jack, she-."

Winters turned savagely on the bar owner, spitting flame with, "-And _you_ know better! - _Bloody insane women!_ "

Roxanna fired back with equal force, "Rio was wearing a thin cotton top, jeans, and flats that were coming apart at the seams last night, Jack- remember? Is that the way to go into a refugee camp for God-only-knows how long?.."

Winters, without conceding the point noticed for the first time that Rio was attired in the much less flattering, but admittedly more durable attire of old, pre-RDF military khakis and civilian boots. It was not a fashionable ensemble, but true to what Roxanna had said was a far more intelligent choice for the unrefined conditions of a refugee camp than the casual attire of a barmaid.

"-I have to give it to the quiet one, Colonel.", said the sergeant with grudging respect, "-She was _not_ giving up that critter, I'm told. You might want to save your breath."

Winters continued to wag the forefinger of his right hand, now toward the ground, as he balled tightly the fingers of his left into a fist- both actions to conceal the onset of the shakes.

"-She's on the extreme end of the stubborn scale, that way, Sergeant.", Winters agreed.

"-Jack.", Dalton said, dutifully but cautiously, raising his left wrist to show his classic style, analogue aviator's watch, "-We _really_ ought to take this discussion on the road."

Winters recognized his XO's valid concern.

There was no time for this argument now.

He would exfiltrate the melee- _reluctantly._

Without another word of debate, Winters turned and began to plod quickly and heavily back toward the way he had been led in, saying only as he opened the distance between himself and the others.

" _Fine-_ let's go! _Including the fucking cat…._ "

 **RDF Fairchild Base, Alaska**

"Tom, you look like stewed shit and turnips, but I'm glad to see you."

Queffle did his best to maintain an upright posture in bed and hoped that his head was not visibly pulsating in unison with the throbbing he felt.

"I'm mending up quickly, sir.", Queffle assured his friend and superior, Captain Billings who sat looking haggard but noticeably less pummeled than the junior officer. The image on the video phone was jumpy, pixelated, and the audio was not quite in step- but the technology was working.

There was no need to have this conversation by video chat, but at some level both men understood it to be an act of defiance to the enemy. Despite their best efforts, some technology was still working and had not failed while the rest was being restored.

It was a small victory to build on.

"Don't let the bandages and tubes fool you.", Queffle continued, "This place is charging my HMO for everything- and they're raking in the cash."

Clearly tired, Billings still allowed a sound of mild amusement in response to the notion that somewhere billing departments were still in the dedicated business of tallying and itemizing amounts due for supplies and services rendered.

When that moment of fancy was gone though, he returned to the point at hand.

"You've done well, Tom-."

Unexpectedly, Queffle felt a sudden, physically painful pang of guilt that he could not rationalize.

"Greg, I lost my command after ordering an evacuation during a fight, and I still managed to lose-…", Queffle said, searching for a number that he had either forgotten or had not yet learned, " _Hell, Greg-_. –I don't even _know_ who I've lost right now. I'm not sure how that's _doing_ _well_."

Billings was sympathetic but blunt, "You have to take it in context, Tom. We're getting our asses handed to us right now, and the _only_ reason it hasn't been our _whole ass_ is because the Te'Dak Tohl seem to be keeping the gloves on while in the process of kicking the shit out of us…"

" _Te-What-Who?.._ ", Queffle asked, not sure whether he had actually heard indecipherable words from Billings, or if it was the bruising to his brain acting out.

" _Te'Dak Tohl_.", Billings repeated clearly and slowly, "-It's what this particular off-shoot of Zentraedi are calling themselves- and it doesn't seem to be a name that carries no weight. Every indoctrinated Zentraedi on base and in uniform looks ready to shit a pineapple."

"They're supposed to be the mythical badest of the Zentraedi bad-asses, skulking around the universe and keeping the rank-and-file fighting for the cause-. For myths though, they're feeling pretty legit right about now."

While Billings' disclosure of recent discoveries about the enemy were captivating to Queffle, he had the strongest sense that Billings was not speaking to the subject for which he had called.

"- _But_ that's _not_ why we're talking-."

"No.", Billings said, looking relieved for having been handed an easy return to his original purpose, "You're being put up for the Navy Diamond-."

With nothing in his mouth or throat, Queffle still nearly choked on the captain's words. Before the REF, the RDF had replaced the "Navy Cross" and its equivalents from other naval services with the "Diamond"- which substituted the non-secular symbol with a benign variation of the United Earth's emblem.

"Not to sound ungrateful, but-.", Queffle began with true humility.

"-But you don't think your actions are quite deserving-.", Billings interjected, " _Blah-blah, yada-yada-. Other people have sacrificed more and are more deserving-._ Sorry, Tom, deal with it. The problem is that that most of the _other people deserving it_ are also being put up for it _posthumously_."

"The A.R.M.D. force suffered a seventy-six percent casualty rate in the Earth's defense. You managed to fight the battle until it was untenable and then get your people out with only a few lives lost…"

"-It's _deserved_ , Tom- believe me, _it really is_ \- but it's _also a PR thing._ People need a hero out of this, Tom- a win standing out in the losses. Your name's one of those on that list."

Queffle understood immediately and felt a queer mixture of genuine appreciation and the indignity of being used. A tactician's mind also found an opportunity.

"Well, if the REF is getting something out of me, I don't feel bad about asking something of the REF-. Get me a ship, Greg.", Queffle said, "Or, if I can't have a ship of my own- get me _on one._ I'll smile for all of the pictures the REF wants, but I'm not spending the rest of this war on a _buy more bonds_ tour."

Billings' expression was blank, mostly caught off guard by Queffle's shrewd play in bargaining, but to a lesser extent by the absurdity of the request.

"-Tom, I couldn't even tell you _where the Fleet is_ , let alone promise you a billet…"

"Consider my end _paying it forward_ , then.", Queffle persisted.

Billings was cautious, "You know I can only promise to try. Every `wog out of basic up to the admiral who retired last week is chomping at the bit to get into that same game and be the next Henry Gloval-."

"-Just get my hat into the ring, Greg.", Queffle said, "Just get my hat into the ring."

"Done.", Billings agreed, "I'll polish you `til Nimitz looks like Popeye by comparison, but that's all I can do."

"Understood.", Queffle acknowledged, "Thanks-."

"Well, don't thank me yet. You made your deal without hearing all of the other side. Your particular case is a two-for-one deal of sorts, it seems. You get to deliver the good news- and some bad news."  
"To who?", Queffle asked, "-And what?"

Billings expression was sober as he replied, "-The squadron leader, Kroft."

Queffle's stomach plummeted before Billings had need to explain.

Any real progress was made slowly and in small steps, Staff knew.

Slow progress in small steps was exactly what he had been making with Kroft.

Fairchild Flight Ops was not in a position to refuse volunteers for any sortie requiring fighter pilots as there were abundant CAP and protection tasks to be had, and far too few pilots to adequately support them all. Staff had convinced Flight Ops to stop coming to Kroft soliciting though. She had reached that point of exhaustion where she no longer had the strength to seek out the preoccupation of work, but was not quite at the point where she would decline it.

-And decline it she needed to, her XO knew.

Returning from The Blue Banshees' last escort flight, a six hour wheels-up to chocks-set deal shepherding much needed supplies from a Vancouver depot to a developing transport hub in Oregon, the squadron leader had had to ask for approach and landing instructions four times between crossing the outer marker and final approach.

Her landing had been shaky at best, and would have earned her a serious tongue-lashing from an LSO- had RDF Air Force bases _had_ such things as Landing Signal Officers.

Kroft was just spent, and too spent to maintain the façade of not being spent.

Staff had won some small victories in the battle for his CO's health, having succeeded in getting her to eat a few bites out of a BLT, and drinking more than half a cup of tea.

With any luck, with warmth in her belly and the comfort of the ugliest couch in the Western Hemisphere that just happened to be the pilots' common room- she might even submit to a few hours sleep.

Staff hoped for as much.

"I don't want to sleep, Ramrod.", Kroft said without warning and with a spark of resistance still to her voice. Her argument sounded much like that of an over-tired toddler who would not be put down for a nap. Only this toddler had rank on him.

Staff was taken aback- not sure in his own exhaustion of whether he had actually been mumbling aloud his plot to get the squadron leader to submit to rest.

It was probably only coincidental of course, but a startling coincidence.

"You're slim on options there, Skipper.", Staff told her in a tone that said that it was okay to relent, "You're about to fall over. –If the flight surgeon saw you looking like you do, he'd probably put you in a bag."

"-I'm afraid of nightmares.", Kroft said without shame, "I sound like my kids-. Only these nightmares are _about my kids_ \- and Kevin. Isn't that irony or something?"

" _Cruel irony_ , I think ", Staff said convinced of the "cruel" part at least, "-But.."

"-The nightmares are just waiting there-.", Kroft continued as though oblivious to her XO trying to say something more, "-Like bandits massing just outside of range-. You know they're there, waiting- but you can't do a damn thing about it."

Staff was internally grateful that they had shifted to fighter pilot's metaphors. It was an easier topic to speak on than the frailties of the human psyche.

"-Well, rule of thumb still has it that it's better to bring the attack than be attacked. If you know they're there, sometimes you just have to press into them and force it. Besides, don't you tell your kids that nightmares are rough, but they can't hurt you?"

Kroft nodded, knowing that the other pilot was right, "-All the time. Advice is easy to give but hard to apply-. I just don't want the nightmares."

Staff put an arm around Kroft and felt her slump limp against him.

"-Just nightmares-. Hang in there, Amanda-. It's weird, but I believe it- that things tend to work themselves out the way that they should. We just have to bear up while it's all sorting itself out sometimes."

Staff _did_ believe it, as odd as he knew it might sound to others who naturally expected pilots to be the "take control" type.

Sometimes things had a way of working themselves out.

In saying it though, he did not feel as convincing as he was convicted in the belief- which struck him as odd. It was more than not sounding convincing though- there was a twinge he had felt in saying it.

The superstitious part of his pilot's constitution flashed him a single-word warning after the alleged damage had already been done.

 _Jinx_.

No-. Staff willfully dismissed the feeling. He realized that Kroft was not the only one who had gone too long without sleep. The demons that everyone carried made easy sport of those who they found in that condition.

Staff had no notion of how long LCDR Queffle had been present, but the grim look on his face told the pilot that the senior officer was wishing that he had kept his big mouth shut.

"I'm going to need the room here for a minute, Ramrod.", Queffle said evenly but with a hint of guarded discomfort.

Kroft tensed against the other pilot as he gave her a squeeze- all that he had left that he could do for her- and rose from the couch.

Passing the lieutenant commander on the way to the door, he asked the only relevant question that there was to be asked with his eyes.

Queffle mouthed a clear but silent- _No._

Sometimes things had a way of working themselves out as they should.

Sometimes though, the way they _should_ was not the way that was hoped for.

 **RDF Edwards AFB**

Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni had many noteworthy traits as an officer, as a pilot, and as a person.

As an officer, she was fair to her people, and well-thought and decisive in her command.

As a pilot, she was cool and quick-thinking under fire.

As a person, she was open, approachable, and in most cases, level-headed.

-In _most_ cases…

Mumuni was also known to have a temper feared in its heat by Satan himself when she had had her fill of whatever was antagonizing her-.

And right now, she was _incandescent._

Winters and Dalton stood at attention, upright and rigid as fence posts, as Mumuni circled them like a shark wearing flight gear in the back hallway of the preflight building that was home to 623rd Squadron.

As it had happened, the thought that they would slip off post, locate and retrieve Roxanna and Rio and return them to base for evacuation with other military families, and _not_ be noticed as missing had been five minutes outside of the time envelope of being judged a "complete" success.

 _Partial success_ had their cost, and now it was time to pay for the difference.

"-I really don't know what the two of you think sometimes-.", Mumuni pontificated with the simmer still high in her voice as she continued her tight orbit of the two junior officers. The heel of one of her boots must have had a small stone embedded in it as each step with that foot on the polished concrete floor carried with it a horrid grating sound like small fingernails on a small chalkboard.

Winters tightened his jaw with each meeting of stone and concrete, trying his hardest not to wince on the outside.

Clearly his efforts were ineffective as the duration and intensity of each small screech increased as Mumuni dragged her heel with each step. A well-earned, petty torment for her to inflict. Like Ahab's nightly vigil, walking the _Pequot_ 's deck- the sound was a reminder that the subordinates were to feel their master's pain.

"-And it's _both_ of you-.", Mumuni said, making her turn on the heel with the stone, "Because _neither_ of you can decide it's time to piss without the other-."

The fighter group commander returned to a point for which she had already yelled at the two senior Knight Hawks for twice already.

"-So, let me walk through the reasoning here-. We're about to relocate our entire wing and escort a large transport element into an active war zone, and you decide that this is the time to slip all of the preparation duties for your squadron to have a jaunt into town?- Did I miss something?"

Sensing that again, Mumuni actually wanted an answer, but knowing that none he could give would be a good one, Winters simply replied, "Well, when you put it that way, it does make us sound a bit off our nut-."

Having received the provocation she had elicited, Mumuni pounced on Winters like a cat on a mouse.

"- _But?_ \- ..I heard it even though you _didn't say it_! You, were going to say- _but_ \- as if there was one! There is no, _but!_ That is _exactly_ what you did, and there is no excuse that justifies it!"

Shorter than Winters by a full head's height, Mumuni had to rise up on her toes to approximate putting her face in his.

"You haven't had your wings back a week, and you pull a stunt like this before a major operation? _I stuck my neck out for you with Butler to get those wings back on your collar! -And this is how you repay me?!"_

The reinforced corridor connecting the preflight building to one of the squadron's HAS buildings shook with the powerful, throaty rumble of Valkyries lifting off from Rogers Lake.

–Or it could have been Mumuni erupting.

Dalton, whom Mumuni must have felt she was neglecting in the dolling out of verbal punishment was trounced upon next.

"- _And the only reason you're not on the same express line to be stripped of your commission as your boss is that you at least have the common sense to try to be discrete in your bad behavior!"_

"Thank you, ma'am?-.", Dalton said cautiously, not having been cautious enough to remain silent.

"I said, _try_.", Mumuni snapped, the simmer building into the boil again, "You're not smart enough to pull it off! Your whole, disgraceful squadron is still teetering on the edge after the whole _golden car wash_ incident last New Year's Eve with Butler's car!"

Reflexively, Dalton blurted out in his unit's defense, "-There were like- _three hundred_ people at the O-Club that night!.. It could have been _anyone!_ "

Mumuni allowed herself to be drawn off the main topic just long enough to obliterate Dalton's denials with, "- _Butler's wife was in the car…"_

"- _Really?.._ Man, I really _was_ trashed…"

Mumuni's rage was beginning to dissipate as she had stopped her pacing and her nostrils were no longer flaring.

"I need fighter pilots, not fraternity boys in Valkyries. You both get your acts together, and I mean _wire tight_ or so help me God, I'll have you both flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog-shit out of Hong Kong for the rest of this war-."

Dalton snickered before he could catch himself, "-You got that from _Top Gun_ …"

Mumuni turned on him, " _Not another word!.._ From _either_ of you… -And don't think there's _not_ going to be disciplinary action in regard to this. I just don't have the time for the paperwork right now. _There's a war going on, you know!_ "

Mumuni had said her peace for now- or at least spoken her mind- establishing that the issue was not a dead one. With a final, nerve-grating turn on her heel she strode in commanding form down the corridor in the direction of the HAS.

"Get to your squadron and get them to their planes, if you can find them without help."

"-Does this mean we can still fight in the war?", Winters called after her.

"Go to hell, Jack!"

"I'll see you there."

The heavy door at the HAS end of the corridor closed with a noticeable _thud_ behind Mumuni, leaving the two lieutenant colonels alone and in silence.

A moment passed, still without a word.

"Give her a couple of days, and she'll be fine.", Dalton speculated.

Winters shrugged as he and Dalton doubled back on the way from which they had come, heading back toward the preflight building. They still had yet to don full flight gear, and the H-hour was approaching rapidly. Mumuni might have allowed them to temporarily slip the noose, but she was not going to delay an operational sortie for them.

"I wouldn't worry about it much, Freddy, we'll likely be slaughtered within the week anyway."

"Yeah, that's a relief, Jack- I'll hold that one close."

"-And how in the hell did we miss that Arnie's wife was in the car?-."

"Beats me.", Dalton laughed in retrospect on very fuzzy memories, "I was _really_ trashed that night."

Sunlight was beginning to fringe the eastern horizon of the Antelope Valley with a pencil-thin line of luminosity, giving a fiery foundation to the ascending curtain that flowed seamlessly from orange, to pink, to deepening purple through the apex of the sky that remained star-dotted and inky.

To the southeast the last, minimal details of RDF Edwards AFB, and of Edwards City were lost to the twilight as they fell behind.

Rio sat beside Roxanna on a standard, civilian motor coach that had traded its "luxury" appointments and customized exterior paint scheme that would have marked it as a "tour bus" for capacity seating, utility overhead storage racking, and a flat grey coat of paint. It was one of a dozen that had departed from within the Edwards perimeter, ferrying the precious cargo of military families north toward the ultimate destination of Bakersfield. Somewhere in the kilometers of road northwest of the base the military buses had been joined by their civilian relatives to form a great caravan that moved serpent-like in the direction of "safety".

Aboard the stripped-down motor coach it was strangely quiet with the exception of the low growl of the bus's turbo-diesel engine. Almost as if to match the engine's drone, Lucky the cat purred loudly at the center of a cluster of children who lavished attention on his lanky form with soft strokes of small hands.

There was also a constant rumble- a vibration both heard and felt as an unknown number of RDF Destroids and modified RDF Battle Pods flanked the advancing convoy for the sense of security of the civilians being transferred as much as for their actual protection.

All else was quiet in the soft, dawn light aboard the bus on which Winters had unceremoniously deposited Rio before storming off, still in a funk over Lucky's unannounced and unapproved rescue. Roxanna had assured Rio needlessly that once he cooled his jets, he'd be back to his "normal" self, which had been said with a small chuckle of understanding of the humor in that statement.

-But the message was true.

The bus was quiet now, but tensely so. In the privacy of the fading darkness people sat quietly coping with homes and lives being left behind, and contemplating the vague notion of "safety" that was promised to them at the end of this trip.

-And there were the other thoughts.

From the direction of the now unseen Edwards AFB, the distinctive roar of Valkyrie engines, muted some by distance, rolled over the caravan.

Somewhere several rows ahead of Rio, Catherine Home choked back the first of a string of muffled sobs that were joined quickly by soft, consoling words from the wives of other Knight Hawk Squadron pilots.. With the combination of sounds, the baby too began to fuss.

Rio understood.

Valkyries, along with other jet-propelled aircraft that Rio could identify by their sound (which might have genuinely surprised Nigel Winters had he known) had been taking off since before the buses had left the base's gate- but Rio felt, _knew_ , that this was Knight Hawk Squadron heralding its own departure.

She also knew what every other wife or girlfriend on the bus was now thinking and feeling, and knew what had brought tears from the widowed Catherine Home as well. Minds on the bus were worried about loved ones deliberately going the _other way_ , away from "safety".

Rio did not wear a ring like some of the women, but at the moment she was their equal as she was making herself the same promise that could not be assured.

 _He_ would come back, because _he had to._

 **Ukraine**

All battles, even the best staged surprise attacks and ambushes, followed the same, basic template.

Contact was made.

Opponents engaged.

Chaos ensued.

This battle was showing every indication of carrying on that rich, military tradition.

The 5th Guards, and the 301st Mobile Planetary Defense Battery they were charged to defend had been engaged in a blind man's bluff game –a deadly version- all late afternoon and into nightfall with a relatively small Zentraedi detachment that had landed on the steppe just after sunrise.

The enemy, under almost immediate and constant surveillance from their landing by the 5th Guards' UGVs and UAVs had shown strong indications that they were working from a combination of intelligence and intuition.

They had scarcely had mecha on the ground for five minutes before the fast assault company of Regults had drawn itself thin in a line stretching north to south. That line, far too thin to effectively engage an enemy had then begun to sweep east at a pace that was a balance between _driving_ and _searching._

The Gnerl Fighter Pods had appeared about mid-day.

They had been first spotted flying in four-ship elements, probably having come down from orbiting warships in squadron strength and then breaking into smaller divisions to maximize their search potential.

Though their investment in the operation should have been high- their base ships being potential targets of the Synchro Cannon being hunted- the Gnerl pilots showed only a modest interest in the task of finding their earthbound adversaries, and that interest quickly waned.

The Gnerls had established box-pattern searches of swaths of the steppe in advance of their own ground units, but had been inconsistent in their dedication to thoroughly searching those areas. Over the course of the day, there had been four separate instances in which Gnerl elements had passed close enough to 5th Guard units to allow the tank crews to make out the fine details of Fighter Pod airframes without use of video or telescopic aide. A fifth instance had actually had a pair of Gnerls pass almost directly over the Synchro Cannon platform itself.

None of these low passes by Gnerls had resulted in a closer investigation by the searchers, or a single shot fired by either side however.

Several well-designed and implemented defense mechanisms had protected individual tanks of The 5th Guards and the levitating gun platform that was nearly the length of a city block. Their tortoise shell applique paneling composed of electrochromatic laminated RAM allowed both gun platform and tank alike to virtually disappear into white expanses of the snowy steppe from certain angles and in the correct light conditions. In these same conditions of relative position, aspect, and distance the paneling of radar absorbent material deceived the electronic eyes of the enemy as effectively as the chameleon-like attributes of the panels deceived mortal eyes.

Compounding the Zentraedi fighters' ineffectiveness was their own shortcomings in design for the purpose of performing the search..

Chiefly as was known to Zentraedi pilot and RDF-Army personnel alike, was the fact that the Gnerl was designed primarily as a _space-going fighter_ with atmospheric flight _capability_. Its razor-thin wings with their small surface area provided enough lift to keep the fighter aloft only at air speeds of around 240 knots. Their pilots were forced to make high-speed passes during which looking in the wrong direction for a few seconds could mean missing a visual inspection of many kilometers of ground.

Even had the Gnerls had a "low and slow" capability, their deep-seated cockpits were not conducive to observing what might lie below the craft.

Random chance had much to do with a Gnerl pilot locating anything on the ground that was not in a fixed and known position.

The fact that neither the commanders of their base ships, nor the Gnerl pilots themselves wanted to become permanently attached to this effort in the frozen wasteland hindered their contribution to the search also. The time to descend from orbit into the correct geographical area, and then the time required to ascend again to rendezvous with a ship in LEO left each Gnerl element under an hour of effective search time.

Coupled with the tedium of searching for an enemy that was content to hide when other micronians all over the world were actively fighting, the interest this assignment commanded in Gnerl pilots was noticeably slim.

To the 5th Guards, the enemy's search effort from the target's perspective had appeared crude from initiation in comparison to similar operations that were exercised by RDF forces- but at the same time they were more refined than what should have been expected from Zentraedi.

 _Much_ more refined.

"Random chance" was equal opportunity, and with the moderate sophistication and method applied to the search, and despite the odds being in the favor of the evading 301st and 5th Guards- the Zentraedi, and specifically the Gnerl pilots had gotten two breaks.

The first turn of luck in the favor of the hunters had been when a UGV operator with the 301st's HQ unit had allowed the enemy to draw too close to his sentinel's position. A Regult had come over a hill less than 700 meters distant from the small, semi-autonomous vehicle that had also been observing from atop a hill.

The UGV's first indication that it had been detected was a cloud of steam that had obscured its video feed as particle beams stitched the ground around it.

The Regult's aim had improved before the operator could make his sentry retreat, and the video and sensor feeds from the robot had been lost without expectation of ever being regained.

It had not been _direct_ contact between humans and aliens, but it had been enough to validate the hunters' search.

The second "break" in luck for the Zentraedi had not been a break for all.

This turn of fortune had cost lives.

Captain Alexander Cherghuliev had been witness to this break, as it had happened very near to his tank platoon's dispersed position. It had come at twilight in the last of the failing sun when the electrochromatic camouflage tortoise shells of vehicles offered the least protection from visual detection.

A flight of Gnerls had been moving north, and at the most inopportune moment a pilot _must have_ glanced in the right direction to see the tortoise shell of a tank or support vehicle glow a shade whiter than the snow that had taken on a pale blue tone.

Had the pilots gaze passed over the area two minute earlier or two minutes later, the light conditions would have allowed the camouflage to function as designed.

But seen in that brief window….

Perhaps not quite sure, but with suspicion aroused enough to investigate further, the Gnerl had rolled lazily into a banking turn starboard and turned onto a course that led it directly toward Cherghuliev's platoon. The turn itself was intentional an act enough in itself to spur the instinct of self-preservation in the self-propelled missile launcher crew attached to Cherghuliev's unit.

Four Basilisks in passive, "auto-acquisition mode" had left the launcher with minimal flash and negligible smoke trails, and quickly locked onto a Gnerl apiece. The Fighter Pod that had turned to investigate, thus unknowingly instigating the attack was the first struck out of the sky – taking the missile head-on and shattering into fiery shards.

Three additional flashes followed and lit the steppe in bursts of orange just as the Zentraedi pilots began to react to the loss of their comrade.

Beginning to end, the one-sided fight endured a matter of seconds and without a single shot fired in return at the reinforced tank platoon of the 5th Guards.

The time elapsed was irrelevant though. The flash of the explosions in the low light was visible for a thirty kilometer radius, and certainly the other elements from the downed Gnerls' squadron had heard their panicked calls before dying.

Whether the surviving Gnerls' pilots had seen their squadron mates go down or not, they had been roughly aware of the element's position at the time of their loss and had converged on the area.

With a smaller area for the Gnerls to search, and inspiration for the Zentraedi to search more diligently- Cherghuliev had known what was coming next.

 _Next_ had been developing and had been becoming direr for twenty minutes now.

While astonishingly swift for main battle tanks, and able to maintain a remarkable speed of around 140Kmph even over powdery snow, the Cavalier tank was incapable of outrunning the comparatively lightly armed and negligibly armored Regult Combat Pod in open country. Furthermore, _running_ was not the purpose of a main battle tank- and in some practical ways retreat actually defeated a tank's design.

Furthermore and as a matter of both principle and pride, it was not the mission or the nature of The 5th Guards to run from a threat.

Encased in tons of layered steel, depleted uranium, and ceramic armor, Cherghuliev's perspective of the outside world was unique among his tank crew and shared only by the other tank commanders in the unit.

As in any type of warfare, the combatant with the best situational awareness had an inherent edge.

From the first battles decades before where men in iron beasts rode out to clash with other men in other iron beasts, the best situational awareness had always been gained by a tank commander sitting high with his torso through his hatch in order to survey the field freely. It exposed the commander to a higher level of risk, but for the first half century of armored warfare the human eye was the best sensor system.

Even later, when tank commanders had sophisticated optics and image enhancement systems that allowed the world to be seen from inside the turret in multi-spectrum, high resolution- the field of view was still narrow and the preferred method was to again be outside of the hatch when possible.

Cherghuliev and every other Cavalier tank commander enjoyed a fusion of the safety and optical enhancement afforded by the commanders viewer inside of the tank, and the broad field of view formerly only enjoyed above the hatch rim.

An integrated helmet viewing/sighting system closely related in hardware, software, and identical in concept to the external video sensors used by Destroid drivers and Veritech pilots- the Cavalier tank commander controlled the movement of his periscope with the movement of his head. A redundant MFD screen could display images, and a control stick could still direct the periscope like the commander's viewers of the previous tank generation, but this was seldom used in combat.

Cherghuliev surveyed the approaching line of Zentraedi Regults closing head-to-head with his platoon, though the mecha were not yet within line of sight. Either undetected or disregarded, two UAVs continued to orbit this otherwise unremarkable portion of the Ukrainian steppe, transmitting out to the units below a real-time report of enemy mecha positions, direction and speed.

The information was translated for the Russian captain on the inside of his helmet visor as icons indicating not only their "hostile" affiliation, but also their probable classification.

Splitting the view within his helmet visor between a thermal and light-enhanced video image provided by the armored periscope atop the turrret and a map representation of the field provided by InfoLink and the orbiting UAVs- Cherghuliev was able to study and surmise much about his enemy's situational awareness and plan accordingly for the impending first contact.

The Regults were still traveling east in a straight, sweeping line of advance- and not at the top speed that their powerful and tireless mechanical legs could carry them.

-They were still searching and probably unaware of _exactly_ where their enemy lay in wait or traversed the ground.

Silently, Cherghuliev apologized sincerely for comments both drunken and sober he might have made regarding the practical utility of the RAM material tortoise shells that regulation demanded be affixed to the Cavaliers' hulls. The insubstantial paneling, for all of its flimsy feel and the laughable appearance it gave the tank when fully applied was now clearly paying off.

Cherghuliev could only assume with all of the enemy vessels in low-Earth-orbit, that at least one warship commander and a reinforced company of Zentraedi warriors was beginning to sweat at the fact that an enemy was known to be on the prowl, but could not for their collective best efforts be found.

Cherghuliev was not foolish enough to believe however that any apprehension or confusion felt by the Zentraedi would cause them to shy away from an engagement. Similar to his own Russian predilection, Zentraedi were not swayed easily from joining a fight when one was likely.

Knowing that a fight was brewing, Cherghuliev was in the process of making certain that the first blow landed by his platoon would be a devastating one.

By simply placing the cue at the center of his vision on the desired Regult-representing icon and thumbing the "DESIGNATE" button on his commander's yoke, Cherghuliev told his gunner without a word which target he was to engage first.

While the tank commander had the ability to "slave" the turret and main gun to his will, Cherghuliev preferred to trust the training and experience of his gunner, Yurmayev, to train-in and level the Cavalier's 140mm rail-accelerated main gun, and of course to select the correct round for any target.

" _Load HEAP!"_ , Yurmayev called over his shoulder.

The gunner could identify the desired round type for the loader by the touch of a toggle switch on his control yoke, but with only the electric drone of the tank's multiple drive wheels, a verbal exchange was as quicker and more efficient.

Cherghuliev heard the flash door to the ammunition compartment slide open and the grating of metal on metal as the round slid out into Avtukhov's waiting hands. A moment later, the _High Explosive Armor Piercing_ "HEAP" round (formerly _HEAT_ whose "AT" for "Anti-Tank" was dropped when an unspoken agreement that the rounds' targets were no longer exclusively "tanks" swept the community) found its way into the gun breech, which then closed with a heavy, metallic click.

"Tube hot!", Avtukhov called as he pressed himself into the starboard side of the turret and tapped the gunner's helmet to signal that he was clear of the recoil action of the gun.

Even though the main gun used magnetic rails rather than chemical propellants to send the round down the barrel's smooth bore length, the Newtonian forces involved in accelerating a 12.2Kg projectile from 0 to 3,100 meters-per-second velocity still applied. The gun breech and roughly a meter of the 5-meter main gun's overall length would recoil back into the turret almost to the ammunition storage compartment, and with the weight two civilian luxury sedans riding with it, the gun's inertia would easily crush anything composed of flesh and bone in its path.

It took Captain Cherghuliev seconds to assign Regults in the advancing Zentraedi line to tanks in his platoon- not even _all_ of the tanks in his platoon. The aliens were still moving in a formation of maximum breadth, seriously reducing their density and ability to carry the fight forward once joined.

To Cherghuliev, the phrase, "wall of tissue paper" came to mind as he predicted without the sin of overconfidence how easily his tanks would move through the Regults.

While the _exact_ action and maneuvers of his tanks could not be directed before the initial melee ensured, Cherghuliev already had a general vision in mind. Going against the conventional wisdom of dividing his own forces, he would split his platoon equally veering south himself with one division while sending the other north to cut into the exposed flanks of the advancing line that they would bisect.

By necessity, if self-preservation was not an instinct trained out of these Zentraedi, their line would have to collapse in on the attack from the center- at least in part- to meet Cherghuliev's tanks.

By the time the second act of violence had begun to play out, additional tank platoons from the 5th Guards that were lagging behind Cherghuliev's line to the north and south would be able to join the action.

Cherghuliev's only concern was the variant Zentraedi power armor he'd seen earlier that day.

They were nowhere to be seen, and he doubted with confidence that they had simply left the field in the middle of the hunt.

Cherghuliev felt with dreadful certainty that they would appear again- and soon.

Sub-Lieutenant Drifk felt his stomach rise high and into his lungs as the slope of yet another of this alien landscape's never-ending hills dropped away from beneath the feet of his Regult.

At just less than a full advance, his squad was keeping pace with the other Regults of the search line to his north and south, and collectively they were devouring the distance.

Distance to what, and how much distance there was left to be traversed were both unknowns- but they were making good time toward the answers.

Drifk was advancing blind, and this was a point of some unease to the sub-officer.

His Regult's sensors were functioning perfectly, as were those of the destroyer that was now approaching the apex of its passage in orbit overhead- but they were showing nothing indicative of anything but ice and snow ahead-a report Drifk knew to be false.

There _was_ a threat somewhere out there.

Four Gnerls destroyed without having fired a single shot in was proof- but where exactly the threat was to be found or the form that would take was not yet known.

Direct contact would illuminate the mystery- and the practice was not unheard of.

Norghil in particular were relegated to this approach when forcing an action by Invid who were known to burrow into a landscape- even in great numbers- in hope and anticipation of an ambush.

 _Invid_ , however, were not brilliant tacticians at the individual level where the creatures piloting scout and trooper class mecha were concerned. An ambush laid for a Zentraedi division could as easily be tripped by a squad of probing Regults whose very presence would arouse the same hostile instincts in the primitive Invid mind as the prey for which they were lying in wait.

These micronians- these _humans_ \- though, were showing themselves to be much more calculating and far less given to abandoning discipline to the passions of battle. Drifk sensed this, though he had not yet _seen_ a human, or faced one in combat- but they had demonstrated cunning already.

Had this world been occupied by Invid, Drifk had no doubt that the initial assault by the 7th Grand Army would still be ongoing and the opposition both stiffer and more costly for both sides.

The humans though had all but walked away from their home.

This was not cowardice, Drifk knew- not dismissing it as such as some novice Te'Dak Tohl or Norghil might. The humans charged with defending this world were _choosing_ their time to fight.

-As were the humans on this open plain.

And in both instances, this made the humans _dangerous._

Drifk's Regult lost little momentum in its long, ostrich-like strides as it ascended the slighter grade of next snow-blanketed hill. As the sensor eye and forward sensor panel came over the crest, Drifk within the snug fit of the mecha's cockpit was presented with a flicker on the viewscreen- a flutter that endured long enough to be recognizable as a target indicator before it was gone.

Drifk's experienced eyes had locked onto that portion of the screen in the span of the occurrence and noticed what he might have otherwise missed. A shape- an irregular, angular shape in the smooth roll of the land at the top of a hill not dissimilar from the summit he was crossing. A spray of snow from its leading edge showed that it was not just a random land form or accumulation of powder, but also that it was in motion.

 _Micronians._

A flicker that to the naked eye would have been negligible lit up the landscape around the object with the visual aide of the Regult's light-amplification optics system.

An M-910A HEAP round ripped through the frigid, Ukrainian night air traveling the 3.300 meters between the Cavalier tank that had fired it and the Regult that was its target in just over a second.

The driving rings that had engaged the Cavalier's 140mm main gun's magnetic accelerator rails and that were part of the projectile casing had separated and spun free of the round a short distance downrange from the tank leaving only the killing elements of the round to make the entire journey. A short, switch proboscis capped the round's main charge that looked oddly like an American football, only with the addition of a tail boom and fin assembly that kept the projectile in a perfect spin and on the course calculated by the Cavalier's fire control computer.

Had the M-910A simply been a kinetic energy round, the sheer velocity at which it had been thrown downrange would have been enough to pierce the modest frontal armor of the Regult- but it had been designed to defeat thicker-skinned adversaries in a more ingenious way.

A nanosecond after the round's switch spike struck the Regult low and right of the sensor eye, the main charge encasing the aluminum cone that formed the front of the "football" fired, collapsing the cone and redirecting the force of the explosion forward by way of the parabolic dish that formed the main charge's rear half.

Under enormous pressure the solid aluminum finger acted physically as a fluid, the collapsed cone pressed through the surface tension of the Regult's terilium hull leaving an entry hole slightly smaller than a man's fist.

 _Inside_ the Regult, the effects were far more ghastly.

The back face of the thin terilium armor exploded inward as super-heated spall, obliterating the pilot's control console and sublimating flesh and bone not shielded by body armor as the temperature in the cockpit instantaneously soared above that of the most powerful industrial blast furnaces.

The surge of internal heat and pressure caused the Regult to split at the reinforced welded seams and blew the access hatch cleanly off of its hinges and multi-point locking frame allowing a fireball to rise lazily skyward.

" _Target destroyed!"_ , Cherghuliev announced as the cloud of flame from the toppling Regult wreckage was consumed ravenously in its churning ascension by the bitterly cold night.

Yelps of elation came from the other three men of the captain's crew as young men celebrated an act whose full implications they intentionally avoided. Cherghuliev was in step with them though, not dwelling on thoughts of the living being that had been in the mecha that had just been destroyed.

Instead, and as much by training as by any desire to avoid thoughts of the gristly deed just committed, Cherghuliev scanned the horizon- first due west, then panning south- in search of a _next_ unfortunate target.

There were none to be had within immediate gun range of Cherghuliev's Cavalier.

The center of the Zentraedi line had been swept away like sand sculptures before an incoming tide, and true to the captain's prediction to self the extreme ends of the line to north and south were beginning to turn to the middle.

Cherghuliev was unconcerned by this, judging the remaining Regults being tracked and reported by the orbiting UAVs to be no contest for his yet-unscathed tanks.

Cherghuliev's concerns were elsewhere, and steeping concerns they were.

Where were the unfamiliar power armor suits and their warriors?- A breed that if like Quadranos the way the suits were like the _Queadlunn-Rau_ could be trusted to be of a more highly trained and aggressive nature.

Cherghuliev sent to his subordinate tank commanders by his console the order for a hook maneuver that would swing the unit into a sweeping turn south while reconfiguring into a wedge formation. The staggered line of Cavaliers to his south would almost certainly engage and obliterate toe remaining Regults first- hitting them on their flank as they turned north to meet the threat that they were aware of.

Normally Cherghuliev would have been concentrating by now on optimizing his platoon's role in the fight south that was destined to be fought and decided by another unit of the 5th Guards that was less than a minute out from being in position to attack. His mind was not in that fight though.

Cherghuliev found himself dwelling on the location of the Zentraedi power armor and the rising suspicion he had of where they might appear next.

He would support the platoon to his south as it sprung on the now northbound Regults, but in anticipation of the first moment in which he was no longer obligated to that support role, Cherghuliev had entered with only the need to send the order to his tanks to turn west in the direction of the Synchro Cannon.

A victory too easily won, Cherghuliev reminded himself as the southern 5th Guard units began to engage, had to be judged with a healthy portion of skepticism.

After all, the antithesis of _victory_ was not always _defeat_.

Sometimes the antithesis was _sacrifice_.

 _Sacrifices_ were made for a _greater gain_.

Action Commander Kevtok listened with governed outrage to the deaths of Te'Dak Tohl Warriors.

Individually or in groups of rapid succession that overlapped, the chatter of the operational frequency would be torn through by the electronic wail of a Regult's communication system malfunctioning in its last second as it was destroyed. A wavering, shrill tone would ascend over all else, driving with a steely point deep into the ear before dropping away into a growl and then terminal hiss.

The scream of the Warrior was seldom heard, or if heard then only for the briefest of instants before their communications gear faltered to the incalculable forces of intentional violence.

But the mind had a way of filling the gaps, Kevtok found. He was sure that he was not the only Warrior who had heard a comrade's death shriek in that of a communications device, where of course there was none. One was forced to remind one's self of that repeatedly.

Oddly- _cruelly_ to those chosen by Fate to hear- that trick of one part of the mind on the other never completely vacated the active subconscious. It even manifested itself in situations outside of combat- the screech of equipment being dragged over a metal deck- and all the same, one's nerves were on edge and electrified.

Like a strangle-hold on that part of the mind that bonded Warriors to one another and allowed them to imperil self in a comrade's aide or defense- this horrid illusion _never_ completely let go.

At best, it was bound and held in its place.

Kevtok governed the outrage of this indignity and his reaction because the Regult assault company was in conduct of its orders- to draw out, fix, and engage enemy units- and Fate was determining the outcome as it did with every Warrior.

It had been Kevtok's order that had sent them into collision with the enemy, but still it was _Fate's_ judgment.

Fate's judgment was showing itself to be swift and heavy, but as Kevtok had calculated- it was yielding benefit.

A large number of the aliens had been drawn off from the anti-warship weapon in an effort to defend it.

Kevtok could not be certain as to _how many_ , because their returns on sensor sweeps from support ships above and by the Regults at ground level had been negligible at best and far too fleeting to be of analytical use. By the speed at which the Regults had fallen though, a one-for-one approximation was reasonable to assume- and by that assumption it was a substantial enemy force.

The other intended benefit of sending Regults into contact with the alien weapon's defenders had unfortunately been rendered moot. By contact, Kevtok had hoped to reduce the area that he and his Serhot Ran would be forced to search for their primary mission objective, or with luck fix on it with direct contact.

As though Fate was offering compensation for the lives of Warriors lost to the endeavor, the circumstances of the search for the enemy weapon had changed.

Kevtok knew _exactly_ where the weapon was.

His Serhot Ran Warriors were visually tracking it- along with a number of defenders who were stubbornly not detaching to answer the provocation to battle that Kevtok had hoped his Regults would provide.

The enemy anti-warship weapon which Kevtok too was seeing clearly was not dissimilar in size, shape, and design from Tirolian systems he had seen and had been charged with destroying in the not-so-distant past. The weapon, like its Tirolian counterpart, appeared to move on a levitating platform and probably with the ability to do so more swiftly than it was presently.

Unlike the Tirolian weapon, the indigenous vehicle was clad in what appeared to be multiple, interlocking panels that Kevtok took to be the countermeasure that had prevented its easy detection.

The assumption was reasonable as the awkward, "crawling" armored vehicles that Kevtok had seen on the hotter continent and that went by the heavy, and appropriate-sounding micronian word _tank_ were encased in the same type of panels and draping. Even the Regults, which clearly had been adopted and modified by the micronians and whose representation was keeping pace on the flanks of the anti-warship weapon were clad in the same sensor-defeating augmentation.

Together they skulked away from the dwindling fight to the west, cautious but confident in their false security that they moved in stealth.

Kevtok quelled his contempt for the micronians in their underestimation of his Serhot Ran. They would learn shortly how inconsequential their countermeasures against detection had been.

Kevtok's contempt for the unquestioning adherence of his own Fleet to situationally outmoded general orders was allowed to range freely.

" _-I have priority operational tasking on this mission, Action Commander…"_ , Kevtok growled, feeling his anger completing its shift from the micronians to the commanding officer of the destroyer in orbit above, "- _You are endangering that mission! Again, I'm requesting saturation fire on the coordinate grid identified in my last transmission._ "

A moment passed before the action commander, a female (the most obstinate Warriors were _always_ female for some reason), replied, "-And again, _Action Commander_ , overarching operational directives forbid me from complying with your request for heavy weapons fire without approval from at least battle group level. I'm seeking that approval. In the meantime, I've fired a full ground assault barrage of tactical missiles with the intercept coordinates adjusted for delay. Those weapons and my _entire_ complement of Gnerls is inbound. I _strongly suggest_ that you _not_ be there when they arrive."

" _Understood-._ ", Kevtok replied, relenting reluctantly. A commanding officer on the bridge of her ship was not going to have her orders questioned or be coerced into reversing an order before her officers and crew.

Kevtok _did_ understand- far better than this Action Commander Iyos who had likely never muddied her boots on an alien world, much less fought on one.

He understood that regardless of the benefit to the campaign that could be achieved in a minor breech of general orders, that the appearance of authority and the preservation of order and discipline was paramount. –To those who were not carrying the weight of the operation.

Kevtok also understood that he had requested such an assignment as this, and that it had been given to him and to his Warriors because Serhot Ran _adapted_ , and _always_ found a way.

It was time to demonstrate this quality.

"Repeat your last transmission, please, Lord-.", Point Lieutenant Moyrt requested over the mission's command frequency.

Kevtok's message _had_ come through clearly- _perfectly_ even, down to the rasp of the commanding officer's breath on the audio pick-ups in his suit.

Moyrt just had to hear it again though- _to be sure._

"You heard me, Point Lieutenant.", Kevtok replied with a tone that spoke of determination, and dire consequences for those who questioned or interfered with him.

"Moyrt, Klift, and S'Rhod- you will move your units on the enemy's northern and southern flanks, drawing out the defenders from the center. Hyra will linger with her unit in the rear until my signal and then rally on me at the center on the main target by vertical approach. Make a convincing display of the assault on the flanks. –Execute, _now._ "

Moyrt accepted the second issuance of the order without question or protest- the very act of asking an order clearly transmitted to be repeated was borderline insubordinate in standard Te'Dak Tohl units and near inexcusable for Serhot Ran.

Moyrt understood that he had pushed his luck already and was unwilling to see how far Kevtok's favor extended.

"He was serious, I think-.", Point Lieutenant Hyra said to Moyrt over the coded frequency that they had selected and kept for themselves in this operation- an unsanctioned practice that had served them well.

"Is he ever _not?_ ", Moyrt replied, feeling the adrenaline begin to flow as it only did when impending mortal danger loomed.

The potential of action- intense and without quarter- had never been in question both point lieutenants knew. But despite the honed and exercised skill of his Serhot Ran in battle, Action Commander Kevtok always pursued the _best_ option to achieve mission success- even if less glorious.

He also prudently planned for _alternative_ options.

In best keeping to this practice as the circumstances allowed, Kevtok had detached his Regult force early on in an effort to flush and drive the enemy. This having been accomplished, the Regults were now being used to draw off as many of the enemy as they could from defense of the anti-warship weapon. _This_ was to prepare for the possibility that the smaller number of Serhot Ran _might_ have to engage the target directly.

The Serhot Ran had come across the micronian weapon shortly after nightfall and without being detected themselves in the process. Since that time, they had formed two columns of generous intervals between Warriors, shadowing the enemy on his flanks to the north and the south.

The open ground of the steppe by daylight had favored the defenders.

By night though, and as the enemy crossed into terrain that had grown more irregular- the benefit shifted to the hunters.

The micronians had willingly sought out this country, implying their desire in doing so to use it to further assure their false sense of concealment. They showed no indication of the slightest thought that they were being stalked and that the Serhot Ran units assigned to destroy them were slowly closing ranks and the range to striking distance.

Direct assault was the contingency that was being well planned and prepared for.

Per Kevtok's request to the destroyer commander, direct assault on the target had not been the preferred plan- though it was appearing that it would be the plan that would be executed.

"-Just move on them quick and keep the pressure on.", Hyra advised, playing out the next few minutes in her head as though she would be carrying the fight, "Throw everything you have into it- we're not here for long."

" _I've done this before, Hyra_ -.", Moyrt assured her, hearing more of an edgy growl to his voice than he had intended- but knew why.

His tension was coming out for the same reason as Hyra's need to mentally fight the assault for him. With Hyra's unit lingering in the rear to deliver the second blow in Kevtok's revised plan, Moyrt's unit would be attacking the enemy's southern flank with half the strength as the Serhot Ran platoons striking from the north.

If the micronians realized this, or if the action was not executed with shocking speed- they could easily turn in his direction putting him in the path of a panicked and fleeing enemy.

Hyra's Nacht-Rau thumped a fist against Moyrt's shoulder in as assuring a manner as could be transmitted through the separation of two machines.

"Just make sure you're in a condition to do it _again_ , after-."

Point Lieutenant Moyrt did not respond to Hyra and her mandate whose grim alternative was something he'd grown skilled at keeping out of mind in a fight. Thought was not a hindrance in combat- but it had to be _directed_ thought.

"Pair up!", Moyrt ordered to his Warriors who were doubtlessly feeling some of the same reservations as he, "Fast ground-assault line formation, self-covering!.. The Fleet brought plenty of missiles for this campaign, so don't be afraid to use what you have. Sub-Lieutenant Kahl, you're with me!"

Hyra watched as Moyrt and Kahl joined in a loose pair and broke into an immediate sprint north, their Nacht-Rau combat suits quickly accelerating to a full run in just a few paces that carried them away far faster than anything of such mass seemed capable of.

Vaulting the summit of the hill that had been concealing them with Hyra and her unit, Moyrt and his vanished into the night.

Hyra felt a twinge in her spine as Moyrt's platoon disappeared from sight, not completely different from the concern she had for any of her own warriors- but still somehow very pointed.

She stowed it quickly though.

Her own unit would need her focused and on task, and would need her that way very soon.

Battle was a purifying process.

-Of this, Kevtok was certain.

It was one of the few redeeming qualities that it had.

All things that were not essential fell away.

All actions that were not refined or perfected failed.

All things relevant became clear, and all things inconsequential faded into invisibility.

Battle was refinement.

From his position, airborne well above the battle, things had become clear.

What had been a featureless plain of uniform dark was now radiant with visible light and infra-red luminosity. Invisible to the eye but nearly sensible in its intensity, EM energy surged across a broad swath of the band as sensors began to pulse on both sides in a desperate search for and acquisition of targets.

From hunters and defenders the same the zip of particle beam and plasma energy bolts swept broadly in long bursts and then zeroed in on specific targets. Rocket motors punctuated the exchange of energy and solid-state rounds with their slower progression to targets, terminating in stunning high-explosive flashes.

In these dazzling moments of fierce collision and blood-letting, battle also revealed itself to be a source of temptation.

Action Commander Kevtok, from his position aloft _felt_ that temptation to simply dive in to the thickest enemy concentration and test his standing with Fate.

Discipline held firm though, and discipline demanded that Kevtok direct his outlet of violence more judiciously than his lower-ranking Warriors – and _for their benefit._

He had known _it_ was about all day, having detected the intermittent sweep of microwave energy it projected from high above. Kevtok had even gotten a brief glimpse from great distance, making out a manufactured form against the backdrop of clouds before it had slipped into concealment within them.

He had been certain that the pilotless winged sentry, or perhaps several, were about as he had seen them used by the micronians many times on a distant continent with a vastly different climate.

Geographical location not being a factor, their function as an observation platform was the same and the drone was the eyes of the micronian commander.

Blinding the eyes would give Kevtok advantage.

As soon as his Serhot Ran had been positioned for the attack and with the benefit of darkness to conceal his ascent- Kevtok had taken his personal support and guard aloft to find the drone which he knew would not stray far from the alien gun platform.

The search had not been easy without benefit of his suit's sensors, kept off-line by necessity for the essential preservation of surprise. But Fate was in a favorable mood and had granted the Serhot Ran a turn of chance.

At a distance, it had been unremarkable in appearance- a thin, tube-like body with disproportionately long yet slender wings and a whirling, bladed propulsion system to drive it. Equally simple and single-minded in purpose, it ran a quickly predictable orbit that shifted progressively east as the micronian force it spied for traveled beneath the sweep of its gaze.

 _Above_ , however- the alien sentry was oblivious to all activity.

-As the micronian commander was about to be.

Preoccupied with a machine's single-mindedness, the drone turned on a leg of its patrol circuit very near to where Kevtok expected that it would. The change of direction from east to north was drastic, but not an evasive maneuver and far from being difficult to shadow by any of the Serhot Ran officers in their combat suit.

Matching the crewless craft's speed and heading without difficulty, Kevtok at the same time was drawing down careful aim with his Nador rifle. Unworthy of a missile to dispatch it, the sentry was barely worthy of a plasma bolt from the Nador's limitless supply- but it was expedient.

The single destabilized energy round illuminated the wisps of cloud it passed through with a fiery orange aura before it passed through the UAV's insubstantial carbon fiber body at the wing junction. Even without detonating as would have resulted from the bolt striking something of greater density, the energy bold was still more than sufficient to cause a catastrophic failure in the airframe that nose from tail and left wing from right.

The developing battle beneath Action Commander Kevtok had intensified in the span of seconds it had taken to intercept and destroy the aliens' surveillance drone. He could see by the flash of their energy weapons and the flare of their missile launches the positions of his Warriors closing on the enemy flanks from the north and the south.

Outnumbered heavily, it was still a sight that caused Kevtok to swell as _his_ Warriors held the initiative stubbornly and pressed the attack on micronian defenders who by their lack of cohesion in response were showing themselves as shaken.

"Wedge assault formation, _on me!_ ", Kevtok ordered to his officers and guard around him, "Hyra, bring yours in from above to exploit what I open!.."

Before the order was completely given to his detachment, Kevtok dipped his Nacht-Rau's left shoulder into a steep dive and hurled himself earthward.

Major Matvei Grishin of the 221st Light Mecha Assault, 5th Guards was aware that despite extensive redesign and substantial enhancement, the RDF's MBP-1 still had many of the weaknesses of its non-terrestrial relative and forerunner, the Regult Combat (or _Battle_ as it had been sloppily translated into human tongues) Pod.

Operationally it was well suited to a battlespace like the steppe of Ukraine- open and unrestrictive. In this environment, the Regult and the MBP-1 were both able to exploit their best performance characteristic- sustained rapid and agile movement and maneuver.

Deployed in great numbers, as was enjoyed in ideal conditions by the Zentraedi and their Regults, or with coordinated artillery and air support as was the operational standard for the human crews of the MBP-1- the swift mecha was devastating in much the same way that cavalry of old had been for centuries.

What neither the Regult nor the MBP-1 excelled at was static defense, or slow-moving defense. The attachment of the 5th Guards, and by extension the 221st to the 301st Planetary Defense Battery and its centerpiece the Synchro Cannon platform was a millstone that the MBP-1s were forced to carry.

Defense was possible, but best provided in an offensive manner- allowing the light mecha assault units to seek out, to _hunt_ potential threats in an area. The 221st had not been granted permission to detach and hunt under the heavy and correct concern that any contact with the enemy would be further used to fix the position of the Synchro Cannon.

It was gambled that stealth and evasive navigation was the most prudent method to slip the enemy's noose.

Conceptually correct, reality had unfolded quite differently as it often did.

Major Grishin was living that harrowing reality now of fighting a collapsing defense against many enemies- _all_ apparently toting the armament for a standing fight and with the determination, and skill to use them.

The Zentraedi unit of modified Queadlunn-Rau power armor had risen up- no, _exploded_ into the open to the south in a mad charge against the flank that Grishin and his unit were tasked to defend.

A fusillade of short range missiles had streaked out before them, triggering automatically the active ECM systems of the MBP-1s that were designed to defeat just such an attack. The missiles however were by the majority set to reach a position and detonate.

Grishin's MBP-1s had only sustained minor and coincidental damage as Zentraedi missiles threw up plumes of plasma napalm fire and thick, expanding clouds of smoke before them and in their midst. Thick snowfall further obscured visual contact with the enemy as the snow and ice turned instantly into super-heated steam by the enemy's plasma napalm rose a short distance and was crystalized again into fine ice particles that sank to earth in dense clouds.

This was a distraction though, Grishin knew- the cloak thrown up by the enemy to move behind with the dagger.

With the momentary shock that was natural, it was an effective distraction in the classic and literal "smoke screen" sense.

Without hesitation or relent, the Zentraedi charged in at amazing speed in a ground attack- moving by pairs and under effective fire from the noticeably non-standard energy rifles that they carried.

Seeing their advance from the "God's eye" view provided by limited InfoLink, Grishin was reminded in their assault of exercises he had seen performed by legacy _Spetsialnogo Naznacheniya_ , "SPETZNAZ" units. –Fierce, threatening, and lightning paced to throw an enemy on its heels and exploit their confusion.

And also like SPETSNAZ, there was something far more substantial and lethal to their assault than theatricality.

The MBP-1 to Grishin's far right went down heavily as a burst of energy rounds savaged its frontal armor with an effect he might have expected from solid-state armor piercing rounds. A low round from the same burst caught the mecha high on its reinforced left leg, not severing it but inflicting enough damage to cause it to crumple beneath the mecha's weight and sending it to the ground.

Grishin could hear the mecha commander's report that he was down- he and his crew spared by the additional protection offered by the MBP-1's armored crew compartment.

Alive or not though, they were out of the fight in any meaningful way.

An energy round of the same type grazed Grishin's mecha along the more thinly armored right flank- surprisingly shaking the mecha more like the detonation of a missile than an impact from an energy round.

This brought Grishin's mind squarely back into the action.

" _Engage with Hellfire!.._ ", Grishin barked, feeling sweat flick off of his upper lip despite the cabin temperature being not significantly higher than freezing.

With the commander's designating reticule placed on the center mass of the Zentraedi power armor that had just taken down the other MBP-1, the Weapons System Operator, Toporkov, had only to select a weapon from the available inventory, enable, and fire.

Grishin watched with hope for the first two seconds of the missile's transit downrange toward target. As other commanders had reported in the short span of battle, the missile track seemed good and true, but the weapon then veered sharply left and plowed without detonating into the snowy terrain.

One weapon, Grishin knew, could have been an unlikely system malfunction in the Hellfire. Several was indicative of effective _countermeasure_.

Much as Grishin's own MBP-1 had automatically employed its focused-energy active countermeasure system to deflect the track of four missiles in the opening moments of the attack, these Zentraedi combat suits clearly had a similar device with the same purpose.

This was to be a gun duel it seemed.

Grishin was thrown roughly in the restraining harnesses of his seat, above and behind the side-to-side seats and stations of the driver and WSO. His hand was half way to the "zero-zero" ejection seat handle that would have blown the top free of the mecha and fired his crew out in a spine-crushing ascent to hypothetical safety before the company commander realized that the blow had come from the destruction of the MBP-1 positioned to his left, and not a hit on his mecha itself.

Which crew of his unit, all of whom Grishin knew well enough to have been able to have called them acquaintances had the issues of rank not been a factor, had just died- Grishin could not say. Unit-level InfoLink supported through the surveillance UAV was gone now- having vanished in the blink of the eye and almost certainly not coincidentally in the developing battle.

Communications between all elements of the 5th Guards and the 301st Planetary Defense Battery still functioned, but much of the information sharing, the "God's eye" perspective of the battlefield, and the enhanced C2 abilities it allowed were now gone.

With the MFD that had been feeding him the InfoLink Common Operational Picture now dark, Grishin felt an unease that was not just the fear common to battle. Grishin felt a solidifying dread that the enemy knew far more about the fine points of how he and the RDF operated on a tactical level than they should have, and that they were showing themselves adept at stripping away the advantages he'd come to have faith in being there.

Grishin and the 5th Guards were far from _crippled_ \- but were feeling the effects of being _impaired._

If these were not _Quadrano_ warriors- the female elite- then they were something on the same level. –But there were not supposed to be _equivalents_ to Quadranos, nor were there supposed to be variants of Zentraedi power armor or mecha.

This was fact known through the experiences of The Robotech War- the _first_ one, and by the intelligence gathered from the interrogation of _thousands_ of Zentraedi- hostile and indoctrinated, male and female, warrior grade and officer up to even Breetai himself.

But the reality was not adhering to "the facts".

What other foundational assumptions were false?

As a Russian, Grishin had some experience by heritage in alliances that were not as material or binding as they seemed. Was this a betrayal by so-called, _indoctrinated_ Zentraedi? -Not a _second_ Robotech War, but a delayed second offensive by the enemy in the first?

"Go to guns!", Grishin ordered over his platoon's command frequency, "All mecha go to guns!"

Having seen several more sophisticated anti-armor missiles fail to find their mark on increasingly proximal targets, the major was no longer thinking in the "single shot and kill" mindset, but grappling with the possibility that his still numerically superior force might only be able to slow the enemy's advance.

The order having been given, Grishin knew, would not need to be elaborated upon it. His WSOs knew that while powerful like those of the original Regult, the MBP-1s high-intensity particle beam cannons were known to only be modestly effective against the substantial armor protection of both _known_ forms of Zentraedi combat suits. Gunners knew to aim for legs, arms, and even the missile compartments where a hit or successive number of hits might disable the enemy- taking him _or_ her out of the fight.

The 221st could only hope that the same held true for these Zentraedi and their power armor.

A full two second burst from Grishin's own guns saturated the center mass of a combat suit that turned its lethal attention from an MBP-1 it had just torn down by fire from its energy rifle onto the major's mecha. A dazzling spray of sparks from where terilium alloy was shredded by hyper-accelerated energy particles lit the night- but it was only when the synchronized streams traversed high to penetrate and set off the missile launcher above the left shoulder that the suit and its warrior inside went down.

The major's mind went back almost two full days now to the scramble to deploy the 301st Planetary Defense Battery and its 5th Guards defense units, and to the arming of the MBP-1s. Grishin cursed the recommendation of the intelligence officer and his acceptance of that recommendation to arm heavily with guided ordinance, as opposed to the readily available unguided Hydra rockets.

At the slugging range the enemy had successfully closed to now, the unsophisticated armor-piercing rockets would have been nearly impossible for the Zentraedi power armor to evade, and would have been far more effective than the particle beam cannons of the MBP-1s.

Grishin could only comfort himself slightly with the knowledge that the choice in ordinance had been made with the intent of engaging the enemy as far away as possible- at the proverbial "arm's length".

One could not second-guess decisions that were made based on the experience of repeated simulation and exercise, and founded in the information available. –Though one had to recognize that the foundation of the wrong choice would have no bearing on its outcome.

The powdery snow displaced by the fall of the Zentraedi power armor had not settled again before the machine, its pilot apparently only mildly stunned, began to show signs of righting itself and getting back to its feet. As in humans, adrenaline allowed Zentraedi to shrug off shock and pain so long as their machines protected frail mortality.

Major Grishin was peripherally aware that the fall of the combat suit was likely only to be temporary, his attention like that of his WSO having shifted to the second suit in the fire team pair. Possibly focused on another MBP-1 at the moment Grishin and its counterpart had engaged, the second suit was now no longer distracted.

Protective doors to missile launchers snapped open at both exaggerated shoulders and on the suit's chest, exposing loaded tubes like the gaping mouths of a hundred vipers. The power armor was then enveloped in a shroud of thin smoke created as a large portion of the "ready" load it carried was released in a single, mass volley.

Grishin watched return fire of particle beam bolts zip in from multiple angles as the defending line of MBP-1s responded, but there was no ignoring the squeal of a warning tone that told the occupants of the mecha that the ECM system was overwhelmed.

Grishin braced.

A powerfully violent jolt lifted Grishin in his padded and shock-absorbing seat with the subtlety of an iron boot to the ass and with a similar sensation. Stunned and numbed as he was by the blow though, Grishin could feel his mecha settle heavily on its left leg and then begin to topple right for lack of support.

Strangely, Grishin was seized by a cold panic of the fall far more strongly than he had been by fear of the missiles a moment before.

The major's external video feeds returned from electronic hash a fraction of a second before the MBP-1 crashed to a rest on its right side- showing the world at a tilted angle. The humanoid forms of Zentraedi power armor were filling his field of view, no longer moving by pairs but in a rush under the cover of their own fire.

The mechanized battle was in the final stages of collapsing into a close-quarters brawl that Grishin would be incapable of participating in.

Over the siren-song of shocked eardrums, the major yelled his order to the two men of his crew to abandon the felled MBP-1. With the power still flowing, amazingly, and the red internal illumination still strong, Grishin easily found the handle for the hatch that would normally have been above him and pulled it for the reward of a blast of frigid air.

Point Lieutenant Moyrt witnessed the fall of the micronian Regult Combat Pod before the thin smoke veil left by the firing of half of his ready-use missiles had cleared completely. The micronian variant of the most common of Zentraedi mecha was revealing impressive enhancements in the areas of electronic countermeasures that neither the norghil nor even the Te'Dak Tohl warrior grades could have hoped for- but they were not insurmountable. And once past the electronic shield provided by those countermeasures, the micronian variants demonstrated the same weaknesses and vulnerabilities as the Zentraedi Regults.

As Moyrt swept his immediate engagement area over the barrel of his Nador rifle for both threat and new target opportunity, he caught a glimpse through infra-red augmentation of the micronian crew of the felled alien Regult scrambling franticly into the night. The platoon leader was indifferent to the micronians' escape as the novelty of killing their kind had worn through long ago and many skirmishes before, there was no need to invest energy in doing what the extreme climate of this land would do for him.

Sweeping right to where his Nacht-Rau's combat computer was telling him enemy mecha were to be found, Moyrt's last glimpse of the fleeing micronians was to see a short burst of fire from the Nador of another anonymous member of his platoon stitch and crater the ground beneath and around them. Familiar living forms were thrown by the explosion of destabilized plasma rounds, burning brilliantly in the infra-red infusion of Moyrt's video system before scattering across the snow in unrecognizable pieces and segments.

Moyrt let it go with only minor and fleeting irritation. An unspoken rule of engagement of the Serhot Ran was never to kill _all_ of an enemy force- with the clear exception of Invid. The slaughtered could not convey the horrors of their experiences with their comrades, and could not by doing so project the psychological element of the Serhot Ran that benefitted them as much in combat as any exercised skill or tactic.

There were countless micronians around this wretched world who were learning the lesson of what it meant to challenge or resist the Te'Dak Tohl. Those who survived would lend testimony to the credibility of the tales told by their seditious norghil allies whose worst fears were certainly appearing to manifest around them.

Moyrt's targeting reticule drifted over the form of a second micronian Regult and centered on its center mass- an aiming point that training and experience made the point lieutenant seek almost instinctively..

Three short bursts from Moyrt's Nador tattered and tore away the frontal armor before chewing deep into the mechanical and systemic inner-workings of the mecha, compromising something vital and volatile. Sheets of flame surged from breeches and breaks through the micronian Regult in the instant before it was blown apart at those points.

From the wreckage that tumbled to a rest all around the spot where the mecha had stood, only a single micronian form could be seen escaping the reinforced cockpit and scuttling away on all fours like an Invid at first in retreat from the battle.

Retreat- and moreover _defeat_ is what Moyrt now sensed in his enemy.

It had probably been coming on slowly, like stress fractures in fatiguing metal- but like fatiguing metal it had only become evident when it had reached failing point.

The enemy's cohesion was faltering as quickly as their ability to resist.

Moyrt had destroyed his last target as it had been withdrawing at a measured, reverse-step. It had been withdrawing in this manner to cover the retreat of others with its guns and had simply fallen a second short of seeing Moyrt before he had spotted it.

The crucial fact was that few of the remaining micronian mecha were withdrawing in this manner- most were in flight from the field as quickly as their mechanical legs would carry them in the same fashion that the micronians who had been reduced to escape by foot fled.

Moyrt had grown accustomed to micronians and how they fought- familiar enough to see a pattern common to their fragile species.

Bolstered by their admittedly impressive technology, they would begin the fight courageous and strong. Blows would be traded and if the fight could be made to last long enough for the micronians to experience the loss of some of their warriors and to see the supply of ammunition and ordinance for the survivors dwindle-. _Then_ cracks began to form in their warrior's spirit.

Once seen, cracks could be exploited and the doubts would cascade into collapse.

Unfortunately, Moyrt also had come to recognize that unlike some norghil and a number of other alien species, the micronians could also be expected to resume the fight when the odds and conditions suited them.

Even having suffered a defeat and even after having been forced to shamefully flee a fight, there was a resilience in them that was both admirable and disquieting- and that required crushing utterly.

" _Area clear!"_

The call was repeated throughout the squads and assault teams of Moyrt's platoon as enemy mecha either fell within or retreated hastily from their spheres of engagement.

"Lord", Sub-Lieutenant Kahl said with moderated enthusiasm, "-Permission to pursue?..."

Moyrt knew the temptation- _felt_ the temptation.

The mission clock was running though with the orbital missile barrage closing ever nearer with each elapsing second.

In the approaching fusillade of missiles, Moyrt did not feel the pressure of escape- but rather the pressure of challenge. Action Commander Kevtok had made a request for an orbital gun bombardment to prevent unnecessary loss of Serhot Ran. When the request had been denied, Kevtok had had no choices but to order his unit in to engage and destroy the objective at ground level.

The warship commander who had elected to reply to Kevtok's initial request for orbital gun fire with the deployment of comparatively slow missiles was in fact- and possibly inadvertently- being more insulting than helpful.

As they were showing to arrive in just under two minutes, the missiles would at best put the final destructive touches on the work that by that time would already have been accomplished by the Serhot Ran.

 _Insulting._

"Denied.", Moyrt said without hint of the lure he felt to pursue, "Most of them are dead already. Issue orders to the platoon to reassemble and move toward the objective to join with Hyra's and-."

Moyrt had only by chance been looking at his sub-lieutenant when it happened- and only looking at him indirectly.

Turned three-quarters to him as he was, Moyrt saw the puff of ejected ceramic and terilium particles fill the frigid air around Kahl's Nacht-Rau suit, made more visible for an instant in their heat by the fusion of infra-red overlay into Moyrt's video feed.

A squeal of faltering coms-systems – not his own - filled the point lieutenant's ears as Kahl's suit teetered on still structurally sound legs and went down, face-first into the drifting snow.

A thin trail of smoke curled away from a hole that still glowed intensely through infra-red - a tiny hole in the suit's right side just below the arm joint where by necessity the armor was thinner.

Moyrt spun to face west, knowing that Kahl was gone without the need to examine him further. And oddly, in having seen the lethal act committed, Moyrt already knew what had committed it.

Vaulting the irregular ripple of hills to the west and moving faster on their strange, belted means of locomotion than it seemed possible for them to move- the squat, angular, micronian armored vehicles came on. Their large, single gun tubes flashed softly with their discharge and their sending of high-velocity rounds through the air.

" _Engage!_ ", Cherghuliev barked.

By now the rush of combat with its electric charge of fear, anger, and aggression had solidly taken hold of the tank crew and even communication came harshly without conscious intent.

His tank had not been the first to engage in this second contact with the enemy this night, but Cherghuliev knew that he was far enough forward in the line of advance to still have abundant targets to choose from. It was his intent to make the most of these options before other commanders and their keen-eyed gunners had the chance to participate in thinning the enemy's numbers.

Beyond the power armor suit that the captain had just designated as Yurmayev's next target, Cherghuliev could see the flames and heat bloom of the Synchro Cannon burning and scattered all around it was the wreckage and carnage of the light mechanized units through which the Zentraedi had waded to reach it.

Not realistically capable of mounting a prolonged defense against heavy mecha, the MBP-1s had clearly made their best effort and had stood their ground until they had been taken by the inevitable.

In seeing the substantial and increasing damage to the Synchro Cannon platform, Cherghuliev knew instantly that the 5th Guards had already failed in their assignment to defend the critical asset.

That fact made this fight that he and the full tank contingent now pursued not so much about duty, but about revenge.

 _Revenge_ , however, was a long-established, Russian value- and Russians had been known to fight passionately for les noble causes.

" _Sabot!_ ", Yurmayev ordered to the loader as he adjusted with a perfectionist's air the aim on the main gun- wanting the killing action to be deliberate and a signature of his intent.

As Avtukhov rammed into the breach the 50cm depleted uranium dart, Cherghuliev watched a second Zentraedi power armor follow the first to the ground with only a split-second's interval in between.

It was the onset moment of the killing frenzy which would only intensify as the Zentraedi warriors realized exactly how exposed they were despite their formidable armor suits. At that point they would either have to flee, or charge into the threat that the Cavaliers presented.

There was little doubt which option the enemy would take because like Russians, they were not fond of retreat.

Yurmayev was engrossed with his work as the sabot round was rammed into the tube. He, like the other tank gunners, had seen the effect of the kinetic penetrator round on the Queadlunn-Rau variant and was eager to duplicate the moment before he was robbed of the opportunity by either the enemy's move to counterattack or another gunner's quicker trigger finger. It was an ugly and insatiable gluttony particular to gunners that was not dwelled upon nor discussed at length outside of combat, and never during its commission.

The gun breach snapped shut with a heavy, metal-on-metal clap.

Warrior 2nd Grade Lekhra's Nacht-Rau staggered as though pushed by an invisible force of immense strength, but rather than the legs adjust to reassert a stable footing for the great weight of the combat suit- the form of the power armor seemed to convulse and twitch before toppling rigidly.

As seen penetrating Kahl's suit a moment before, Lekhra's suit now also showed a smoking hole along the suit's centerline just above the level of the hip joints. Armor unblemished a moment before showed deep fissures radiating from the entry wound through the fractured terilium and ceramic composite plate.

Not a complete surprise as had been the assault on Kahl, Point Lieutenant Moyrt had _heard_ the metallic thunderclap of the round that had struck and killed Lekhra through his Nacht-Rau's external audio pick-ups.

It had been an insidious sound- malicious and spiteful, smacking of a challenge to reply.

Moyrt had other obligations commanding him and his platoon though, and lacked the time to properly assert and enjoy vengeance.

Before the burden was placed on the point lieutenant to order his Warriors to decline the micronian challenge, he was relieved of the obligation.

"All units _withdraw_!"

Moyrt heard the order from Action Commander Kevtok as his mind was in the process of finding an argument that would allow him to justify the fight he still wanted with the micronian _tanks_

"Withdraw and exfiltrate to operational base ship immediately!"

Kevtok's order was specific however, and without any room left for interpretation.

The order was not driven by a lack of commitment to the mission or lack of enthusiasm to see it carried out thoroughly, Moyrt knew. On his sensor display, and also with a quick glance to the southeast he could see the movement of a dense cluster of icons indicating inbound ordinance.

It was the missile attack, and it was now within his suit's sphere of detection.

To not withdraw at this point was as good as doing the enemy's work for him.

It was time to go and to let the missiles do the killing for which they had been fired.

Moyrt half-turned to reaffirm Kevtok's order to withdraw when the most powerful blow he had ever felt struck him at every molecule in his body. More violent than the most solid body blow he had ever taken in a warrior's game of _keh_ , it traveled _through_ Moyrt like electrical current through a conductor as his suit's systems fluttered with an electronic seizure.

The joining flash of stunned and resetting systems and the physical shock that set Moyrt's ears ringing with a piercing pain caused him to think in a nanosecond of odd calm and clarity that he was reliving the last instant experienced by Kahl and Lekhra.

And in a sense, he was.

-But thought persisted beyond the flash of light and the pressure that had seemed to threaten to liquefy the point lieutenant.

Unseen to Moyrt as he in his Nacht-Rau lay flat on their backs, the combat suit's dense frontal armor displayed a spider-web pattern of fractures centered at a deep gouge where a depleted uranium sabot had struck at just the right angle to deflect off of the composite armor rather than penetrate it.

Unaware that a simple matter of a few degrees' angle had saved his life as he was that his platoon had already taken him for dead and were in the process of obeying the order to exfiltrate, the point lieutenant was left with only his most base instincts.

With considerable pain across his whole being, Moyrt righted himself with a tortured groan and a singular thought that did not involve exfiltrating from the field.

Point Lieutenant Hyra felt the great, levitating beast of metal and synthetics buck and convulse in death throws beneath the feet and shock absorbing systems of her Nacht-Rau combat suit.

The deck of the gun platform had already begun to take a noticeable list to its left and had begun to settle aft even before the Serhot Ran officer had leapt with booster assistance to a portion of the vehicle's spine well rear of the midpoint. Now, as internal, secondary explosions caused a violent quaking through the hull beneath her- the magnetic pads of her combat suit's feet were required to maintain purchase on the dying craft.

Flame and debris erupted, geyser-like from the substantial hole that the single round from the destabilized plasma cannon on her suit's left forearm had made through the relatively thin skin of the micronian anti-warship gun. The same escalating chain of internal catastrophes that hemorrhaged fire from the wound she had inflicted were also blowing out panels in the gun platform's skin along its flanks and forcing the micronians who had been posted at stations within unfamiliar to the Serhot Ran to spill out from formerly unseen hatches to tumble a significant distance for creatures so small to the frozen ground below.

Hyra's savagery on the main objective of the unit's mission was being repeated in forms personalized to the warrior inflicting the damage all along the gun platform as Serhot Ran in their combat suits emptied missile launchers and fired their energy weapons to the point of overheating into the micronian weapon- seeking gratification in the results.

Looking forward Hyra could see Action Commander Kevtok's suit, grappling as she was with the anti-warship gun while maintaining a tenuous foothold on the metal surface of the hull that now quaked with the grating of the platform's stern as it now dragged across the field.

The commanding officer was magnificent in her eyes, both directing and participating in the final kill without regard for self as the vehicle continued to disintegrate beneath him.

Until-.

The Nacht-Rau combat suit's threat warning system reasserted itself to Point Lieutenant Hyra, and even her considerable determination to stay at the task at hand was not sufficient cause to ignore it. The machine was advising her of impending destruction for all who did not heed its warning.

" _Withdraw!_ ", came Kevtok's order again, clear and as serious as any he had ever given.

The missiles were seconds out now and regardless of what more the Serhot Ran _could_ do to the enemy, they were done – or would share the fate of the enemy whom they had so thoroughly reduced.

Settled snow on the field at all points around Hyra exploded into billows of steam and displaced powder as Nacht-Rau suits fired their boosters to rocket away from the target area as quickly as the engines would carry them. Hyra's fellow elite were experienced enough to know the line between bravery and foolishness as it applied to combat operations. On that level, the point lieutenant was eager stay in their company.

Before egressing skyward, and for no reason in particular, Hyra glanced west.

Unperceivable to her naked eye, and only slightly more distinguishable by the sensitive video system- Hyra was able to see a single Nacht-Rau moving rapidly _west_ rather than ascending.

-She did not require integrated sensor systems or a computer to tell her who it was.

"- _They're retreating!.."_ , howled Yurmayev, his normally tenor voice growing shrill with elation as he bellowed his report from behind his gunner's sight.

Cherghuliev was privileged to the same view from his commander's viewer, but not being limited to a single responsibility as the gunner was in combat, the commander had additional information that changed his perspective in seeing the rapid departure of the enemy from the area.

Microwave radar, now fully active in aiding the tank to pinpoint and engage the enemy told Cherghuliev of the multiple objects inbound from the east and moving at high speed.

Scores of them-.

 _Hundreds._

Cherghuliev knew that by now all of the other tank commanders of his advancing line were seeing the same wave of missiles approaching, and knew that they too were aware of the grave implications.

They would continue to charge though, until he ordered otherwise-.

There was no time nor need to use his commander's console to direct a reversal of course.

"- _Retreat!-Retreat!-Retreat!.."_

Any fogginess of thought that the blow dealt to him had caused had now lifted fully from Point Lieutenant Moyrt as he closed to within the effective range of his weapons.

Below, the swift yet still lumbering charge of the great metal beasts fielded by the micronians showed a sudden drop in pace and the first indications of turning.

Moyrt, now clear minded, had no delusions that the reversal had anything to do with him or his intent as the enemy was likely not even aware of him slowing into a hover above. To his rear, to the east, the earth began to shake with the arrival and first detonations of missiles.

The leading edge of the wave was first a series of distinct, individual blasts that rapidly doubled, multiplied, and then increased by orders of destructive magnitude until the very environment trembled powerfully with the advancing line of devastation brought on by Zentraedi tactical missiles. The air took on such a vibration that Moyrt was sure his suit would be shaken from it and tumble to the field below.

With the missiles sweeping the area, Moyrt still knew there to be time for _just one more shot…_

The pounding of Hyra's heart was nearly indistinguishable from the heavy concussions of detonating warheads whose proximity to her seemed to shrink with every blast. She dared not look to her rear or check her sensors as her suit ravenously ate up the distance between herself and Moyrt- she knew the barrage was right at her heels and knowing more would only confirm the stupidity of what she was doing.

Ahead, and in stationary hover- Moyrt's combat suit was drawing down aim on one of the micronian armored vehicles below. His suit auto-trimmed to keep stationary and at the pilot's desired attitude as both the suit's left forearm with its plasma cannon and the right clutching the Nador rifle extended far out from its center of gravity, both tracking the target in unison.

It was a demonstration of malicious intent- an exaggerated execution of an act that Moyrt was fully capable of doing reflexively.

The flash from Moyrt's energy weapons lit the field brilliantly, his plasma cannon's single round striking the rear portion of the armored vehicle's gun turret as smaller rounds of the same variety saturated the deck in a tight pattern that traversed forward to rear.

The vehicles tough hide surrendered itself in deep gouges where the Nador rounds struck, throwing sparks and molten bits in all directions with each radiant burst of the destabilized plasma rounds.

Where the round from the considerably larger and more powerful plasma cannon struck, the result was proportionately more devastating.

As solid as she knew the vehicle to be, Hyra watched the rear third of the turret vanish- consumed by a towering plume of sublimating steel and ceramic particles. Secondary explosions that Hyra could not explain mingled with the main blast, adding an ominously beautiful glitter to this moment of destruction.

Hyra realized also, and nearly too late to react, that she had become so fixated on Moyrt's inexplicably foolish activities that she had nearly forgotten conduct of herself and her own Nacht-Rau suit.

She rolled left, reversing her orientation in a single, practiced and fluid motion until her suit was in a feet-first, mid-air slide that allowed her to use the full power of her boosters to bring herself to a stationary hover just beyond Moyrt's position.

As her suit righted itself in mid-air, Hyra saw what she had been consciously attempting to ignore- the rolling wave of explosions as tactical missiles dove sequentially on the field in an advancing carpet of explosive flash and smoke.

-And it was already almost upon them.

" _Moyrt, NOW!_..."

In any other situation or context, the two words might have required elaboration.

-In any _other_ situation-.

A final, short burst for spite ripped the air from Moyrt's Nador rifle and further tattered the smoking hull of the tank he had shown so much interest in destroying. Before the last spark's glow had faded however, Moyrt's boosters fired propelling him away from the field with a missile's velocity.

Hyra was slightly ahead of her friend in the ascent, and was certain that she saw the wave of missiles pass just beneath him as his Nacht-Rau soared away. The random wash of explosions that swept west beneath him obscured the sight of the ravaged tank whose destruction had been worth Moyrt's risking his life.

" _You idiot!_ ", Hyra hissed as the chill of mortality taunted clung to her skin like the fine sheen of sweat that was in truth a physical part of the sensation she felt, " _You IDIOT! -What in the name of Zor were you doing?!"_

Moyrt's reply was unapologetic as he said with an even detachment, " _Fighting the enemy-._ What have you been doing?"

" _Saving your Invid-brained, y'het'miash hide!.."_

"From what?!"

"From the _thousand missiles_ that were ten seconds behind me! -Did you happen to miss that?"

The field below had already been lost from sight to a low-level deck of clouds through which the secondary explosions and residual fires of the battlefield continued to pulse and glow in muted oranges and reds.

"- _That?!.."_

"Yes, _that!_ "

Moyrt was dismissive, but around the edges of his words Hyra could hear that the gravity of the danger he had exposed them both to was beginning to take hold.

"We were out of there with time to spare. –You worry too much, Hyra-. You're going to develop a nervous condition."

"Only if I keep trying to protect you from yourself, Moyrt-… _Y'het'miash Invid nia-metkhum!_.."

"- _Do you eat with that mouth?.._ "

The commander's hatch of the Cavalier opened slightly at first, arrested by a bending in the hinges that normally allowed a perfectly aligned mating with the frame. From within, a profusion of dense smoke poured out like tea overflowing the capacity of a cup.

With a metallic groan commensurate to the physical effort behind the act, the hatch opened further until the armored disc stood at a 45̊ angle to the battered and smoldering line of the turret deck.

A limp form, smoking from an extinguished fire, emerged in three great shoves from below. A fourth push and the unconscious man in his early twenties tumbled down the sloped armor side of the turret and landed with a heavy grunt in the snow.

Captain Alexander Cherghuliev's arms and head emerged from the hatch next, similarly smoldering and wreaking of the hair and eyebrows that the flash of heat into the turret had burned away. His arms and upper body draped over the rim of the hatch, the captain looked more like a man clinging to a life ring in the middle of the ocean than one pulling himself free of a tank in the middle of the Ukrainian steppe.

Cherghuliev's face stung sharply with burns and the sudden exposure to the frigid air, but it was the sharp and radiating pains that stabbed outward from his right leg and lower back that held his attention. His right foot would not accept any weight, making the captain unsure of exactly how he had ever lifted Yurmayev through the hatch like a badly rolled carpet.

A moment's recovery, the mostly-fresh air outside of the turret, and the distinct possibility that the enemy could come back allowed Cherghuliev to muster the strength to pull his thick, Slavic frame through the partially opened hatch with two agonizing movements.

Stars and amorphous clouds of light filled the captain's vision as his own tumble to earth, landed him next to Yurmayev. Additional lightning strikes of pain surged from the injuries he was aware of and served as the self-introduction of others that had been unknown up to this point.

Deep rumbles of distant explosions rolled over the field that glowed luridly and threw soft patterns of infernal light against the clouds above.

To the east, Cherghuliev could just see licks of flame like luminous cathedral spires in the general area that he had last known the Synchro Cannon to be.

As the cold soaked through his utility uniform and with the cloudiness of mild shock- it all hardly seemed important.

There was suddenly the deep roar of Gnerl Fighter Pod engines over the landscape as they swept in delayed trail of the missiles, seeking targets of opportunity.

Cherghuliev knew on some level that lying beside the dead hulk that had been his tank minutes before might expose him and the unconscious gunner to the fire from target-hungry, alien pilots- but his body would not move to heed his brain's warning.

He and Yurmayev would just lay there a little while longer- just until his strength returned again.

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

"Liege, we are too far out of position to recover the Serhot Ran-.", reported the ship's executive officer, "-however, _Destroyer 4427_ will be in position to take them aboard as they reach orbit in approximately seven minutes."

"Is Action Commander Kevtok among them?"

There was a pause, followed by a puzzled but firm, "Yes, Liege- he has been coordinating the exfiltration-."

"Very well.", Action Commander Iyos replied, careful to disguise her concerns with a layer of practiced concern.

"Raise Operational Command on a coded frequency and route it to my station."

"Yes, Liege."

Iyos moved back from the acrylic dome that formed the anterior of the command bubble and sat in her chair at its center feeling far heavier than the effect of the ship's artificial gravity produced.

Her orders had not been explicit, however the implied intent had been clear enough. A failure to carry out orders- even unconventional an implied ones- was certainly a mark against her in her new billet as squadron commander, a blemish on her personal record that might hinder future advancement, and a stigma in the eyes of Command on her squadron in general. –And units not favored by Command were known to draw the more _perilous_ assignments.

This was especially true when the unconventional orders and their implications came from so high in the chain of command.

Per her instructions to her executive officer, Iyos had a communications screen open in the air before her within the command bubble. The standard at the center of the screen reflected the rank and billet of the officer to whom Iyos was to speak and did little to improve her outlook on the position she found herself in.

The holographic screen changed without warning, replacing the ensign with the image of Sub-General Jekketh whose expression seemed somehow more implacable than at the first and only time Iyos had ever spoken to him directly, a little more than a day before.

"Report, Action Commander."

Iyos suspected by Jekketh's tone that he already was in possession of the pertinent information he sought, but wished to punish by forcing her to deliver it personally.

"The Serhot Ran operation has been accomplished, Lord. The last alien anti-warship weapon in the region has been destroyed. Te'Dak Tohl casualties from the deployed force have been high."

"-Amongst the Serhot Ran?"

"Some.", Iyos replied, and not wishing to draw out the revelation any longer, said bluntly, "Action Commander Kevtok is returning with his surviving Warriors to an alternate recovery ship at this time."

Jekketh's expression did not change, but did not have to for his displeasure to be felt.

"Understood. See that his needs and those of his unit are attended to. I am certain that another assignment requiring their efforts will not be long in materializing."

"Yes, Lord."

 **The Sea of Cortez,**

 **Northwest of Sinaloa**

"-Well, looks like the free ride is over- they found the soft spot.", Lt Col Fred "Buster" Dalton said with disappointment moderated by expectation, "I guess we have to earn our combat pay today after all."

 _They_ \- that marvelously nondescript word that had been hung darkly and with contempt by humans in many tongues since the advent of warfare on untold numbers of enemies whom the speakers did not wish to humanize with the use of their true names- in this case, the Zentraedi, _had_ found the "soft spot".

Since it had been known that even the considerable Valkyrie and Adventurer II elements of the aptly named "Sojourner Flight" could not possibly carry adequate armament to fight a running defense for themselves and the unarmed cargo transports for any considerable distance, the RDF Army had scrambled to establish the best ground-based support it could muster in the time allotted.

In this they had done an admirable job, and because of it the enemy air armada that had formed up with the intent of destroying the RDF units transferring south had been held for longer than expected outside of striking distance.

At advantageous points through Southern California, along the Baja Peninsula, and from positions that had already been established in the Sierra Madre inland from the Sea of Cortez- a thin yet overlapping wall of Basilisk batteries had created a corridor of supplemental protection through which Sojourner Flight had traveled for most of the movement toward ASC territory.

As had been _probable-_ so it had happened west of Puerto Penasco at the northern end of the Gulf of California and after the joining of the ALCANWEST elements- Sojourner Flight had been discovered.

EW units, their jammer pods blazing the air with electromagnetic interference to jam all enemy detection methods short of an intentional and systematic scan by an orbiting warship had successfully allowed the RDF aircraft to move under in near-invisible concealment. The C2 AWACS for the movement, "Moses" had with the assistance of a JSTARS guided the flight around the increasing number of Zentraedi air patrols flying top cover for the aliens' own migration south, mostly to the east of the Sierra Madre and of the ground patrols that flanked the main force through and west of the rugged mountain chain.

-But it had happened…

A four ship element of Gnerls, part of a squadron spread thin over a hundred kilometer sweep had elected for no discernable reason to venture just a little further west towards the Gulf of California than the pattern flown by other patrols.

While their sensors had been craftily blinded by EA-9D EW/ES Adventurer II variants, their sophisticated systems worked _only_ on the Gnerls' sensors and not the pilots' "Mk-1 eyeballs".

A Zentraedi pilot had seen a distant shape, a familiar shape and one of many as it had likely been that of an RDF CT-4 transport- the RDF-modified sibling to the Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport. Unaware of Re-Entry Pods operating in the area and with easy confirmation that there were none from whatever command structure the pilot fell under, a closer investigation had quickly been decided upon at the element level.

That particular element of Gnerls had ended their day on a "down note".

Moses, having detected the Gnerls' change of heading and having determined it to be that of an intercepting course had elected to draw the first blood. Unseen by the Zentraedi until the moment that Basilisks had left the rails and had started to track the four investigating Fighter Pods, RDF Army SAM batteries had been ordered into action by the AWACS.

The Gnerls, their fate almost certainly decided at the moment that the Basilisks had begun independent homing upon them had been able to repeatedly report their sighting of the RDF flight and its apparent position to their superiors. They had not been able to close to within engagement range before being obliterated mid-air by the Basilisk missiles, so in this sense the SAM batteries had performed their function flawlessly.

The report of the doomed four-ship element however was to mean that the batteries along the Baja Peninsula and the western slopes of the Sierra Madre range would have to perform this function again.

Multiple times.

Like a wasp's nest disturbed, the response of the Zentraedi to the report of the Gnerl flight was quick and ferocious.

Gnerl squadrons, building up to a strength of several wing-sized units had coalesced from numerous patrols over the desert and swarmed in defense of their ground forces east of the Sierra Madre while also standing poised to attack. As they had been drawing together their strength, multiple patrols from out over the open Pacific had merged and been joined by additional squadrons that dove down from orbiting base ships like raptors.

Basilisk batteries had gone into full action from the first indications of the enemy rallying its air power. Striking out with direction and coordination provided by Moses, the batteries maintained a steady rate and volume of fire punctuated only by the need for battery crews to re-arm their launchers.

Struck by successive and unrelenting waves of Basilisks, the squadrons of Gnerls and lesser numbers of the Queadlunn-Rau power armor variants saw enough of their comrades knocked from the sky to cause the survivors to have a moment of pause. As a result the two Zentraedi fighter groups had formed a bracket on Sojourner Flight's flanks, shadowing it both west and east as successive attempts by smaller detachments to close to engagement range were thwarted by SAMs.

Had the Zentraedi known that the majority of SAM batteries had fired themselves nearly out of combat effectiveness, many having loaded their last Basilisks into their launcher pods- the attack may have persisted until the earthbound defense of Sojourner Flight had broken.

This critical intelligence was not available to the Zentraedi however, and as such the aliens had simply shadowed with purpose.

Correctly, a ranking officer somewhere in the chain of command had surmised that there was no need to rush the attack. Eventually the human force would extend beyond the assistance of their ground cover. It was only a matter of time.

The point where probing Gnerl elements from the group formed over the Pacific had discovered that they could skirt around the reach of the SAM batteries and place themselves in the path of Sojourner Flight had been south of La Paz- a coincidental irony.

The gap having been found, the Pacific force of Zentraedi fighters had quickly divided itself into two- half continuing to pace Sojourner flight while the other half rushed to place itself in an intercept position.

Winters watched as the Zentraedi to his southwest beyond the tip of the Baja Peninsula rounded the SAM barrier, looking in their movement much like time-lapse photography of a typhoon bumping along the coast.

"-Maybe we can coax them down to Cabo San Lucas and smooth things out over a margarita-.", Winters suggested as the Zentraedi force began to pass without interest the celebrated holiday destination.

"As long as I'm not picking up that tab.", Dalton agreed.

"Peace requires _investment_.", Preacher observed, more seriously than Winters' off-the-cuff remark warranted.

Vice brought the conversation back down to the appropriate gutter level by saying whimsically, "God knows every piece I ever got in Cabo required an investment-."

Winters knew the rise in banter was not his pilots' minds drifting, but rather indicative of nerves being soothed or ignored by the only means available.

The Zentraedi would not be enticed to discuss peaceful resolution at a resort on the sea any more than they were likely to invite the RDF back to their fleet to discuss the same.

On one level though, this suited the pilot just fine.

The bottleneck where the fight would have to come was forming up for all to see.

The Zentraedi aloft over land had only to maintain their presence and contain Sojourner Flight as the immovable object that the RDF did not want to move against- the "anvil" as it were.

The Pacific force then became the "hammer" being raised for a first and powerful strike.

All of Sojourner Flight saw that a fight was inevitable, and Winters suspected strongly that Moses would not allow the enemy the initiative. It was only a question of whether the RDF would try to push through the bottleneck, or attempt a slightly more direct yet riskier drive toward the relative safety of ASC-controlled airspace and Oasis by turning immediately inland and running the gauntlet of Zentraedi air power above a hostile force of thousands.

Winters did not have to wait long to understand Moses's tactical inclination as "kill boxes" for defining a battlespace and directing the offensive actions of forces were designated and displayed remotely from the AWACS onto his console's center MFD.

 _Game on._

 **AWACS-EC-33 Aircraft, "Moses"**

"Red and Green Bandits, numbering two hundred plus breaking from Bandit Force Two on mean course three-four-oh and ascending through angels ten. –Accelerating through eleven hundred Kmph-. Make closure rate on Sojourner Flight twenty-seven hundred Kmph."

The report by the senior sensor officer was heard by Major General Butler, who like all in the equipment and personnel-crammed section of AWACS fuselage that functioned as "Central C2" sat strapped into a seat. Butler's seat, unlike those of the all-officer crew, had only an MFD with full monitoring access to the platform's functions and no control abilities. The crew around him each performed an _Air Battle Management_ function- those specialized MOS skills particular to the AWACS platform and required, as the name implied, to manage and to provide command and control to RDF forces in air combat.

Despite his rank, being by far the senior-most aboard the AWACS EC-33 aircraft, the report was not actually intended for the purpose of his situational awareness.

Colonel Briggs, a dark-skinned, black officer who despite his perpetually intense expression still looked far too young for the silver bird on his collar had the distinction of tactical command over Sojourner Flight and had been the one who had ordered the initiation of what was promising to be an intense aerial sparring match between the home favorite, RDF, and the _visiting contenders_.

"Thirty-one seconds to initial missile contact.", announced the senior air weapons officer who had been tracking the progress of the high volume of Reflex AMSLM-4 "Falcon" missiles toward the enemy since they had been uncaged and released at the colonel's orders.

These first shots had been fired by the RDF Air Force's contingent of less-than-glamorous Adventurer IIs whose critical support roles across many military disciplines was too often outshined by the sexier role of the Veritech Fighters and their pilots. The awe-inspiring weapons variety and load that could be carried by the attack variant, A-9C, allowed it to be both the tactical hatchet and if necessary also the scalpel in an engagement and depending upon the commanding ABM's wishes.

Today, in opening the fight, the A-9C Adventurer IIs at over a full wing's strength by themselves were being used as the hatchet.

Briggs had ordered a uniform release of half the Adventures' weapons in the hopes of eliciting a response from the enemy like what was now being seen. They were being provoked into an attack, and moving into the engagement not as the whole force but as a large detachment.

While the combination of Gnerls, designated as "Red Bandits", and the _Queadlunn-Rau_ variants, "Green Bandits", whose exact capabilities were still undetermined were not a force to be underestimated- exceeding a total number of 200 as they were- they were a force that could be realistically _managed_ in a fight.

Briggs had sufficient range between the enemy and the leading guard units of Valkyries to allow a battle damage assessment of the first wave of Reflex missiles on the enemy before deciding on his next course of action. Whether it was the Adventurer II "hatchet" again, their weapons initially targeted through InfoLink and using the AWACS' powerful radar systems, or a "scalpel" solution using the fighters and Adventurer IIs in some combination- these were the options that Briggs had available in his tool box.

The Zentraedi options were more limited, especially as long as the smaller number of EA-9D Adventurer II EW/ES variants maintained a veil of electronic noise through which orbiting warships could not acquire Sojourner Flight as a target for gun or mass missile attack. –But with the forces they had in the air on three sides of Sojourner, they still had a hatchet option of their own- and a much larger hatchet than that carried by the RDF.

And Zentraedi were not known to be shy in the use of the hatchet.

"Move our vanguard fighters up into attack position.", Briggs ordered the senior air crew manager as the collective track of Sojourner Flight began to shift westerly, steering toward the kill boxes where the fight was anticipated to take place and where Briggs clearly intended to breech the Zentraedi force.

"AWOs are to maximize enemy force reduction within the kill boxes using measured, long-range Falcon attacks from our Adventurers. Fighters are authorized weapons-free and to engage on anything that slips the boxes. …Let's see if our war games were worth the cost of the exercises. –And Coms…"

"Sir?!"

"Raise Oasis again-. _Where the fuck_ is the Goddamn cavalry?!.."

Winters did not require the sensor information layers projected into the inside of his helmet visor to see, now at just under two hundred kilometers distance, the position of the approaching Zentraedi interception force.

He could not see the flash of warhead detonations as he and his pilots had been witness to two nights before, but in the uncommonly clear sky of mid-morning, small dots of dirty brown were filling a particular region of the sky. Each blemish against the sapphire blue beyond was the visible indication of a successful missile hit and the resulting smoke of burning combustibles.

It took only seconds for these individual marks of destruction to form a haze of varying densities that smudged the entire region of sky.

Horribly impressive as this sight was, this was not the focus of Winters attention.

Climbing at an astonishing rate that was matching that of the Valkyries, the enemy "Red" and "Green" bandits were clawing for the thinner air where their performance attributes were prime.

This was the prelude to a headlong rush in at Sojourner Flight, Winters knew- and probably a move on their right flank by those units still out over the sea. Moses had forced their hand and despite the withering effect of the Reflex Falcon missiles on their squadrons, the Zentraedi were aware that they had to bring the fight in closer.

Calculating their losses for the attempt or not, they would bring the battle into gun-fighting range if they could. Only then could the aliens stage the kind of air brawl where their numbers would have any tactical significance.

There were disquieting indications though that the Zentraedi had more in mind than the low-brow application of brute force. Only a fraction of the fighters and power armor racing the Valkyries for the altitude advantage had their active sensors on- and none in attack mode.

They had learned the lesson of the first night of the war and were preserving their sensor systems for the moment when they could use them to acquire targets for their missiles.

Winters found himself hating this smarter breed of Zentraedi- they had the annoying tendency to experiment with new tactics.

He was sure that he would hate them more once they inevitably discovered tactics that were _effective._

"Use your Basilisks sparingly-.", Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni reminded her pilots, "Once you're bingo, you're on the sidelines until this goes _knife fight_. Moses wants the work in the kill boxes done by the Adventurers, so focus on the stragglers."

"-And don't run with pointed sticks either…", Winters added, wishing rather he could tell his superior to ignore her responsibilities by shutting up about the obvious and letting everyone get the sweats in peace.

" _Shut up, Jack!_ ", Mumuni snapped, probably sweating profusely herself at this moment, "If this turns into a furball, we draw the enemy down to the sea and east toward the coast- _away_ from Sojourner. _No one_ goes lone wolf, wingmen keep with your element leads. _Strays get put down._ "

Winters had stopped listening by this point as a matter of greater interest was unfolding on his cockpit's central MFD, delivered by a fusion of his own fighter's radar and InfoLink.

The Zentraedi group that had positioned itself to intercept and that was now on a course to do so was beginning to segregate itself into successive waves.

Leading the formation were Gnerls, and likely the most novice of the Red Bandits. They were being offered as sacrifice to the Valkyries and their longer reach to preserve the successive waves composed of other Gnerls- likely more experienced pilots- and beyond these, the flight-capable power armor.

Winters and all of the other Valkyrie pilots had seen it in simulation, as even the largest RDF war games lacked a sufficient numbers of indoctrinated Zentraedi playing their former "hostile" role to properly recreate this plausible scenario. The Zentraedi rookies would absorb the bulk of the damage and take the edge off of the RDF's sword, allowing the trailing Gnerls to enter the fight strong and scatter the Valkyries to be exploited by the power armor at even closer and more advantageous range.

Like many Zentraedi tactics, it was unthinkable to all but the most sociopathic human minds.

And also like many Zentraedi tactics, it existed because it was known to be effective for the cost paid in Warrior blood.

Still, it did seem to Winters to be an exceedingly aggressive opening move- even for Zentraedi who already enjoyed a considerable numerical superiority.

The cause became apparent to the Valkyrie pilot along the fringe of the area displayed by his central MFD.

The Army of the Southern Cross Air Force, not nearly as numerous as the Zentraedi air group operating east of and above the Sierra Madre, but still a larger number of aircraft than Winters had thought them capable of deploying in a single sortie were in the opening stages of engagement. With this challenge to the top cover for their migrating ground forces, the Zentraedi had suddenly found themselves no longer performing a simple interception but also mustering a critical defense simultaneously.

The enemy's attention had been split, and as a result Winters expectation of surviving to see the next sunrise had improved.

"Knight Hawk Squadron, Moses- ascend to angels forty and vector one-four-five for intercept. Contain and neutralize Red Bandits in Kill Box Two- leave Green Bandits to Falcon missile intercept. Weapons free, fire upon opportunity-. Be advised, Vigilante and Werewolf Squadrons are on your right and will be on mission in your AO as well. Over."

"Roger that, Moses.", Winters said feeling his stomach knot tightly beneath his waist restraint buckle, "-Always good to have company-. Over. Knight Hawks, you heard the man-. Stay on me."

The Earth seemed to drop away and the canopy of sky take on a darker blue as Winters eased _Marilyn_ 's nose up into a more aggressive rate of climb and added power from the ample supply that the Valkyrie's engines had to offer.

To starboard, Vigilante Squadron under Colonel Mumuni was on a similar climb and drifting out and away intentionally for the maneuvering space that would be needed once the fight closed to dogfighting range.

–And at this point, there was no doubt it would.

Mach 1 fell away with a slight bump, barely noticeable- and along with it the whine of the Valkyrie's engines. What remained was coursing of his own blood through his ears which to Winters became immediately deafening.

 _Whistling_ would drown it out for the next thirty seconds or so until the boil of the fight demanded full concentration and was given it.

Sub-Commander Niak gripped the control yokes of his Gnerl tightly as the buffering units of _norghil_ -piloted fighters began to absorb the first missiles fired by the micronian fighters. In their simplicity of mind and function, the norghil pilots were performing perfectly and to the full extent that Niak had expected of them- they were wading into enemy fire to preserve Niak's Te'Dak Tohl for the fight that was to come.

Having tested the micronians in battle once already, Sub-Commander Niak was developing a sense of their composition. While they could flare in ferocity, showing comparable aggression to both norghil and Invid- their despicable attribute on the individual level was a demonstration of excellent combat training and doctrine coupled with the equipment that allowed them to employ it.

Yet they were far from perfect.

They demonstrated a shortcoming in prudence- they would risk many in battle to save few who could have been lost without significant consequence. In his limited experience fighting the micronians, Niak had seen this repeatedly.

They also would allow themselves to be drawn into fights that they had no possibility of winning- present circumstances being evidence to this.

Micronian missiles met the leading elements in brutal, supersonic collisions made certain in their lethality by the detonation of high-explosive, fragmenting warheads. Some Gnerls of the leading norghil squadrons had wings or rudders shot away, sending them spinning away toward the expanse of sea below. Densely packed in formation as the norghil were by intent, a number of the Gnerls damaged by the enemy struck comrades in their plunge linking both pilots in misfortune.

Fate's judgment was unwavering, but not always cruel. Some norghil pilots died instantly as micronian missiles destroyed their Gnerls completely with a single strike.

If there was anything that Sub-Commander Niak hoped to share with a norghil, it was this favor of Fate when that judge of all Warriors ultimately decided on the time and method of his demise.

As successive and varied scenarios of death manifested through the norghil fighter elements before Niak and across his entire field of view, the Te'Dak Tohl felt increasingly sharp stabs of fear and regret.

Sub-Commander Niak _feared_ he had not placed sufficient insulation between his Te'Dak Tohl pilots and the enemy, and _regretted_ his initial thought that to requisition more expendables for this purpose was to be _wasteful._

Decisions once made and executed could not be remade, and therefore should not be revisited, Niak knew. Fate would have some Te'Dak Tohl die this day no matter how many norghil were thrown at the micronians to offset their risk.

In one respect though, Sub-Commander Niak was comfortable in the correctness of his calculations. The micronians were expending a high volume of missiles to bleed the norghil dry. These were missiles that would not threaten Niak's Te'Dak Tohl.

"Prepare to establish a killing sphere! Squadrons Three and Four, break to flanks on my signal! Squadron One will go high with me, and Two low-.!"

Four Basilisks fired.

Four Gnerls killed.

It had hardly been an accomplishment.

In times when humans had been limited to killing other humans in air duels, pilots had fought entire wars without downing as many of the enemy as Winters had accomplished in a little over two minutes.

As dark flecks had penetrated and left behind the cascading, sooty curtain of their tumbling, destroyed comrades and began to develop distinct shape and character that showed them to be Gnerls- the four missiles fired by the squadron leader felt analogous to a squirt gun against a brush fire.

The sight also reduced substantially the comfort afforded by the four medium-range, multi-purpose missiles that _Marilyn_ still carried on her outer hard-point stations.

There was no way around the fact that it would be a bloody fight fought close enough to get wet.

The Zentraedi were committed to running their strongest play regardless of the cost to their pilots, as Winters had expected they would.

The leading Gnerl elements were tattered and continued to melt away under waning Basilisk attack, while Falcons fired by the Adventurer IIs far astern of the Valkyries continued to penetrate deep to seek out and kill power armor- but the odds were far from evened. And additionally, it was not expected that the aliens would simply crash headlong into Sojourner Flight like the meeting of two great armies in Greek or Roman times.

The losses of the Zentraedi up to this point were payment for a desired position gained.

" _Sphere forming!_ ", Winters sang out unnecessarily. His pilots- _all_ Valkyrie pilots- knew the indicative signs of the airborne snare, and knew the response actions that presented the best chance of surviving the encounter.

Winters was obligated to command nonetheless-.

"B-Flight, go high! A-Flight left! Engage by pairs- _break, break, break!_ "

Winters uncaged two of his remaining Basilisks, designated them to the two leading Gnerls traversing from his center to left, and fired- allowing the weapons to separate and clear before he dropped his throttles, applied brakes and snap-rolled into a banking turn to port.

G-forces hit like an invisible wall, flattening the pilot into his seat as he fought the Valkyrie's nose through 45̊ of turn before leveling, retracting his brakes, and firewalling the throttles. Searching the sky to starboard, he found the Gnerls that were maneuvering to form the right hemisphere of the aerial fighter trap to be relatively where he expected them to be and now well within the thirty kilometer mark.

"Call it, Jack-!", Vice request-demanded from a covering position high in trail off of Winters' starboard wing , "-What's next?!"

Vincenz was a gifted and intuitive fighter pilot, fully capable of keeping up with his element lead and equally capable of taking the lead at a moment's notice, Winters knew- but with the right flank of the killing sphere drawing across the sky now in a mesh of Fighter Pods, and A-Flight more or less angled to intercept and pass through the enemy's flight path at a right angle- it was a fair question.

Winters scrambled for an answer as crossing the path of multiple bandits at supersonic speed seemed scarcely safer than staying inside of the forming sphere. But as a "plan" it did have the virtue of possibly rattling the enemy pilots with its sheer lunacy and possibly throw them off their game.

"Punch through and then go high-! Maybe we'll draw some of them away from the group. –We'll come at `em again from the outside... Let them deal with the inside track…"

The "plan" was barely off of Winters lips before he was contesting with the challenge of executing it.

The Gnerls filled the sky and Winters' field of view at measured intervals as they continued to expand the killing sphere they had been ordered to execute. The Valkyrie pilot could now clearly see the fine details of the Gnerls as he and Vincenz made their quasi-suicidal charge.

Had the light conditions been right to see through their canopies, Winters mused antagonistically that he would have been witness to the bulging whites of enemy eyes as he and Vincenz made their aggressive intercept.

" _Prang one on your way through, Vice!"_

As flight paths converged, Winters flipped his weapons selector into gun mode to enable _Marilyn'_ s laser cannons.

A Fury missile fired by Vice streaked by Winters canopy, perhaps a little too close for comfort had Winters had the luxury of considering such things at the moment.

Instead, he was tracking on a Gnerl with the aiming reticule projected inside of his helmet visor- training the cannons by his head motion. At the moment where the reticule crossed the Fighter Pod's center mass, Winters clamped down the trigger and held the target in his sights as laser bolts savaged it.

Before the Gnerl had left the "cone" in the Valkyrie's forward hemisphere through which the lasers could track and engage, the fighter had been mauled beyond recovery. –A gratifying and personal act of malicious intent, Winters recognized as flame engulfed the Gnerl and it dropped from sight.

If he could have carved Alan "Gecko" Home's name into the Gnerl as a means of reckoning, he would have.

-And nothing drew the attention of the enemy as making it known that the act of killing one of theirs was both _intentional_ and _personal._

Vengeance was out of mind before the two Valkyries passed through an opening in the path of the Gnerls and had slipped the Zentraedi "killing sphere".

-But with the enemy's attention aroused, they were not alone.

" _Two-. No, THREE peeling off and tying on, port side low!"_ , Vice warned, performing the wingman's duties.

Winters searched and quickly found the trio splitting from the main force as Vice had called them. Throttles clearly full-open, the larger alien fighters were having no difficulty closing the vertical gap between themselves and the Valkyrie element they meant to engage, but their rate of turn was less substantial by the Gnerl's performance characteristics weakness and they were clearly slipping to a track outside of their ability to engage.

"Break high and right on me and we'll take them on the overshoot!", Winters ordered as he chopped throttle, raised brake, and unswept his fighter's wings to hemorrhage speed.

Pulling the nose up and right, Winters glimpsed the Gnerl element flash past far to port in a blur- probably realizing the lethality of their tactical miscalculation as they passed.

Dropping the resistance to airflow and throttling up again to maximum to take up pursuit in the vertical, Winters made a wide barrel-roll to port to slip into trail for a low deflection shot.

Three sets of Gnerl pulse jets burned radiantly as targets for Fury dogfighting missiles.  
" _Vice, peg any splitters!- ..Fox Two!.._ "

Air combat like any form of warfare was a quick succession of violent actions that intercepted, overlapped, and quite often augmented one another- and despite the best C2 methods and technologies- it took on a life of its own.

Colonel Briggs at the center and aware of all of the command activities going on around him aboard the AWACS, was cognoscenti of this. It was at times like these that the common title in the C2 staff of "Air Battle Manager" seemed its most absurd. _Air Battle Consultant_ seemed more appropriate, or at least less delusional.

The Zentraedi, as it had to be expected, had spilled out of the "Kill Boxes" initially established and had necessitated the formation of new ones that were no longer roughly south of Sojourner Flight, but almost due east of it.

Briggs had ordered the flight out further west, now over the open Pacific in response to his fighters' struggle to maintain footing and hold both position and the enemy in that position. The air battle that had been joined by Terran forces from both Sojourner Flight and the ASC forces of Oasis now sprawled out over nearly three hundred kilometers of airspace and continued to seep in all directions of the compass.

While the fighters remained engaged and were both a distraction to and a holding force on the enemy, Sojourner Flight would only experience an inconvenience in transit by way of skirting the battle.

If the fighters were to falter, however-.

Failure by his fighters was still a real possibility, Briggs understood.

What the colonel also understood by the behavior of the enemy was that they too were having doubts of their own chances at victory.

The force of Gnerls that had originally formed over the Pacific from patrols already in the AO and supplemental squadrons sent down from orbit still loitered out to the west- pacing Sojourner Flight like a predator uncertain of its ability to bring down its prey. This initially substantial force had divided early in the flight, sending a portion of itself to the mouth of the Sea of Cortez to block Sojourner Flight while keeping the rest in apparent reserve.

Had they committed fully Briggs suspected based on the intensity of the battle raging still with only a portion of the original enemy force, the RDF might well have been overrun by now.

The enemy had shown caution though, unable to see clearly beyond the EM smokescreen thrown up by the RDF's EW Adventurer IIs, and now with half the number to commit was showing real hesitation.

Briggs, over the course of fifteen minutes had done all he could to justify the enemy's hesitation in his mind.

He had ordered the few and last of his fighters out west of Sojourner Flight to the cusp of the interference thrown up by his EW birds, giving the enemy _glimpses_ of fighters before drawing them back into the haze. The Valkyries and conventional Falcon fighters drawn in desperation into Robotech-warfare would then shift position before presenting themselves again, appearing to the enemy _hopefully_ as different units of a larger force that did not actually exist.

The bluff was apparently effective though, as the western Zentraedi force continued to decline to commit.

The deception of smoke and mirrors had its limitations, Colonel Briggs realized, and was easily undone by even a single enemy pilot who dared to listen to a hunch.

More immediately perilous was the state of the air battle to Sojourner Flight's east, about which the enemy commander had full situational awareness.

In this fight, the Valkyries Briggs had committed had come out ahead at each stage. They had inflicted grievous losses with their Basilisk missiles at range while losing none of their own, and had disrupted the formation of the killing sphere and slipping the would-be trap with only a handful of Veritechs lost.

Now though, as battle devolved into a massive "furball", and with the weapons carried by the Valkyries quickly dwindling in the face of a still numerically superior Zentraedi force- the initiative was starting to shift to the aliens.

Colonel Briggs was certain that once the alien commander sensed this, he would commit the forces to Sojourner's west and the battle would take a textbook turn toward an RDF loss.

212 kilometers east, Sojourner Flight's best chance of survival was already engaged and pushing west with steady determination.

The Army of the Southern Cross Air Force was making an impression both on the Zentraedi and Colonel Briggs. Showing the clear Eurasian roots of many of their pilots who had fought that side of The Global War, the ASC was giving the Zentraedi force over land and east of Sojourner Flight a fight that the aliens were more accustomed to, but with a slight technological edge on the ASC's part.

This human assault from Oasis and its outlying, supporting bases brought with it the density and edge required to cause the Zentraedi commander to begin a shift in his own forces. Zentraedi units, Gnerl and power armor, were being drawn from the fight with the weakening Valkyries and committed to the one with the ASC.

It was buying time that Briggs knew he needed, and there was the outside chance that it would be enough.

Any "lines" of battle had long since dissolved, as had clear boundaries of the churning melee at stratospheric level. Now there was only the enemy to be found at all points, and the need to destroy him before he did the same to you.

Captain Peter "Dodger" Lindsey of Knight Hawk Squadron's A-Flight was only aware that he was northeast of the original kill boxes established by Moses and had pursued a four-ship Gnerl element with his wingman "Pinball" Ott on a weaving chase between the borders of Kill Boxes Six and Seven.

–Information with limited practical application.

The Gnerls at least demonstrated good sense in maintaining a numerically superior element to the Valkyries with whom they were engaged, the RDF fighters having almost instantly upon engaging separating into pairs. Their streak of genius had ended though as Dodger and Pinball had tied on to them and the Gnerls had elected as an element to attempt escape of the engagement by outrunning the slower Valkyries.

Gnerls _could_ , given the time to accelerate, outrun a Valkyrie at 20,000 meters- but at no altitude could they outrun a Fury dogfighting missile.

Dodger, having only two Furies still on his hard points had handed off the role of element lead to Pinball. Head on ta swivel, Dodger scanned the skies all around repeatedly for threats. There was no way of knowing whether the Gnerls that he and Pinball were in trail of were foolish, as hoped- or crafty as was possible and drawing the Valkyries into straight and level flight that could be exploited by unseen "friends" of the would-be prey.

Two Furies streaked away from Pinball's Valkyrie and ate up the distance between the Valkyrie and the Gnerl element's two trailing ships. Both missiles struck their targets squarely inside the span of two seconds, throwing clouds of debris with the destruction of the Gnerls that the Valkyries were forced to nimbly evade or risk ingesting.

The Gnerl element lead, likely seeing foreshadowing of his own demise in the loss of two of his subordinates committed the cardinal combat sin of panic and followed his initial mistake of attempting a dash-escape with a second one in trying to out-turn his pursuers. To some degree the mistake was lessened by the lead's wingman who elected to split the element and possibly to draw off a Valkyrie by making the opposite turn.

Pulling right with Pinball through a 5-G turn that was superior to the Gnerl's rate and quickly putting their noses ahead of Ott's intended target, Dodger without leaving his lead's wing repeatedly checked the position of the second Gnerl that had split left.

By intuition and calculation, Lindsey knew that Pinball would be poised for the perfect kill seconds before his target's wingman could even bring his nose around into attack posture. He (..or _she_ , Dodger reminded himself…) would then find himself head-on with a pair of Valkyries that would end the fight with a missile shot rather than a riskier head-to-head pass.

".. _Six more seconds…_ ", Pinball said for both Dodger's benefit and his flight recorder's. The pilot's focus on positioning his fighter for the kill was clear in his voice- not quite _target fixation_ , but demonstrative evidence of why RDF fighter doctrine stressed so heavily the importance of the wingman.

Being conscious of his responsibility to cover Pinball's tail did nothing to make the practice easier for Lindsey. In the right, banking turn both Valkyries were pulling, Dodger had to fight five times his normal body weight to twist in his seat and visually track the second surviving bandit.

As the Gnerl vanished in its turn from Lindsey's direct line of sight behind the port engine intake of his Valkyrie, the fighter augmented his ability to see by infusing video fed from what in Battloid mode would have been the Veritech's "head" onto the inside of the pilot's visor.

Regrettably, the Valkyrie for all of its abilities could not diminish the G-forces against which the pilot had to strain.

" _His friend has about fifteen seconds before he has us in the basket-!"_

" _Fox Four!"_ , Pinball called out to indicate a gun shot.

Looking forward again, Dodger saw the zip of tracer rounds race out and seem to fall away in an arc from the centerline orientation of Ott's Valkyrie. Why Pinball had felt the need to employ the bore-sighted, kinetic-round firing GU-11 gun pod mounted to his fighter's belly and not the helmet sighted laser cannons was beyond Dodger's immediate comprehension- but he had surrendered the element lead role and was obligated to support Pinball's calls as his wingman.

As the brutal, armor-piercing explosive 55mm rounds struck the Gnerl- intercepting the fighter mid-air in turn as the Valkyrie's lead-calculating gun sight had predicted- Dodger remembered the reason.

 _Effect._

Dodger had easily downed three Gnerls inside of the past fifteen minutes with his laser cannons and with each had visually been able to confirm hits by the small flashes of bolt strikes and the resulting puffs of vaporized and ejected materials.

Pinball's rounds, probably twenty in all, _mutilated_ the Gnerl- sheering away entire portions of the airframe before a penetrating shell struck a sweet spot that transformed the target into three distinct tumbling balls of flame.

 _A good choice._

"Scratch one.", Pinball said, content with himself but not boastful-.

Killing a bandit was not an uncommon accomplishment today.

"No doubt on that one, Pinball.", Dodger confirmed as he followed Ott out of the starboard turn and into a reversal to engage the slain Gnerl's wingman.

As the two Valkyries turned through due east heading toward north, Dodger felt a moment's panic in searching the relatively empty sky for the remaining Gnerl.

It was not where he expected.

The panic subsided however as the pilot found the alien fighter again and was able to account for it being out of position.

Higher than it had been in its turn, Dodger caught the shrinking, tail aspect of the Gnerl with its three glowing pulse-thrusters as it climbed and accelerated away. Clearly the pilot had witnessed what had happened to his comrade and had decided to not take his chances with a 2-to-1 disadvantage.

Perhaps not as brave, but definitely smarter than the average Zentraedi.

"Knight Hawk Eight, Knight Hawk Nine- Moses. Task. Vector one-nine-five at angels twelve. Werewolf Four is defensive, and you're the closest."

The call from the AWACS was one that could be expected in any air battle, but in context of _this_ fight, it tickled Dodger with a flash of irony.

 _Everyone_ was defensive today, more or less.

Looking southwest and despite the persisting battle further on in that direction, Dodger was able to quickly pick out the lop-sided fight into which he and Pinball were to intervene.

A lone Valkyrie trailing a stream of grey smoke could be seen jinking and corkscrewing with a Veritech's agility around alternating missile and laser cannon shots from three pursuing Gnerls.

The alien pilots had to be of the more experienced variety as they were not crowded upon one another, vying for the kill shot- but rather hanging back at a distance that kept them within range to engage, or to pursue should the Valkyrie attempt escape through a radical change in direction.

 _These_ were the ones that Dodger was sure he'd really learn to hate in this war….

"Werewolf Four, Hawk Eight- this is Dodger-. We're turning on intercept now, hold on-!"

"Dodger, Drover- _A little help please…._ "

Sub-Commander Naik was not unaccustomed to such spryness in an enemy.

Invid in particular were known to shift at near right angles to their path of flight to gain advantage on the attack, or to preserve themselves in evasion for the ability to attack. Their thinking was limited in terms of improvisation and predictable once a Warrior knew what to expect.

 _Norghil_ were known to be more innovative from time to time, but were limited by the performance parameters of the mecha or fighters they operated.

These _humans_ though-.

He thought no more of killing them than he did killing an Invid or a norghil, but he was appreciative of the exhilaration of a _true challenge._

The killing sphere had not materialized the way Niak had planned, but in its failure there had been little gain for the aliens. They had been forced to fight hard, holding nothing back to keep from being completely overwhelmed and now the effort was taking its toll.

The sophisticated and lethal missiles on which the micronians had so heavily depended to do most of their killing were all but gone now, leaving them to contend with Niak's Te'Dak Tohl pilots as combatants should- _Warrior to Warrior_. –And in that contest of skill and stamina, the micronians were starting to show the toll upon them.

They were still sly, still dangerous- but they were clearly tiring now from the physical rigors.

Their inescapable frailty was beginning to serve the Te'Dak Tohl.

Naik allowed the alien fighter to cross just below his centerline in a snap-roll intended to shake him before he released his missile.

The night before had demonstrated that use of the Gnerl's active sensor target acquisition system was ill advised with these human fighters. Many a Gnerl pilot had found their sensors quickly rendered useless, and the majority of these pilots had not lived to reach ground to recount their experiences in person.

Fired line-of-sight though, the missile went active at leaving the Gnerl's launcher and had a better than fair chance of acquiring the desired target without risking the fighter or its Warrior-pilot.

As Naik was adjusting to stay in trail, the alien fighter reversed its turn and inverted into a steep dive to evade- the same active countermeasure system that had rendered many Gnerls sensor-blind did the same to the sub-commander's missile only a few seconds into its pursuit.

Like others before it, and not having endured as long as some- the missile veered sharply away and was quickly lost from sight.

Naik eased off his throttles and pulled his fighter's nose up slightly allowing his airspeed to drop off as he overshot the mark where the alien fighter had rolled over into a dive. Mimicking the same maneuver as the damaged alien fighter, the world rolled over before him and Niak's windscreen filled with the ocean below as his Gnerl plunged towards it.

A glance to far off his left wing found Point Lieutenant Brillak, arguably the best pilot in his command and very intuitive in the ways of aerial combat, slightly ahead and in a similar dive. Without having to look, Naik also knew that Lieutenant Yitch'kra- no less capable than Brillak, though her prowess being rooted in relentless training and exercise- was somewhere above and coming down in a broad, descending spiral.

This was a tested tactic used against higher caste Invid who entered battle in the company of thousands of their lower-order kin, but who unlike them possessed a sense of self-preservation.

Invid Scouts, Troopers, and the great majority of Shock Troopers reacted to almost every combat scenario with the same response- _attack._ Higher order Invid, capable of more complex thought and realizing their own mortality were sometimes know to take the option of escape.

If the situation warranted, the pursuit tactic now being executed by Naik and his supporting Gnerls allowed the larger, less agile Zentraedi fighters to remain engaged with the smaller, nimble mecha of higher-order Invid. Two to pursue directly, and the third spiraling Gnerl poised to join the fight as the situation required.

With Invid, it was highly successful.

Naik was curious to discover how it translated to dealing with micronians who individually were proving to be far more….

" _Fighters, high left!"_ , Yitch'kra called out in warning as her descending orbit brought her about to an orientation where she was able to spot the approaching threat.

As though synced with Yitch'kra, Naik's head snapped left and he found almost instantly the threat she had called.

Thin and insubstantial by Zentraedi standards, the twin silhouettes against the blue sky were still somehow menacing in their aggressive approach- though not quite so much as the fine dots that were the missiles accelerating out ahead of them.

Pinball watched the track on the last of his missiles as they closed on the two Gnerl Fighter Pods that were on a dive in trail of Drover from Werewolf Squadron.

Fury missiles were advanced in their homing and intercept characteristics as dogfighting missiles went, but they were "fire and forget", and short range to boot. Having fired them at their maximum range, Pinball had thumbed the trigger intending to either splash the bandits or ward them off the outnumbered Valkyrie from "The Land Down Under".

Now as the two Gnerls in the dive half-rolled and pulled hard away from the track of the weapons- a maneuver that Pinball would not have believed possible had he not seen it himself- the Valkyrie pilot found himself wishing he'd delayed loosing the weapons by two or three seconds.

Both Furies, each oblivious to the other's intent, struck the same Gnerl that had pulled into the lead and in doing so was beginning to nose-up and come around into attack posture on the diving Valkyries.

The fragmentation warheads of the missiles tore the Gnerl to pieces, some of which pelted its wingman who in the process of the aggressive course-change had drawn just a little too close to its leader.

"Splash one, dinged one!", Pinball called out as he flipped his weapons selector into gun mode for a laser shot.

"Number Three is coming down at eleven, high!", Dodger warned, "-Pass him down the middle!"

As Pinball rolled off left, Dodger rolled hard right to open a broad void between them through which the descending bandit- the third in the element- could pass.

Too far out of position to manage a respectable shot at either Valkyrie as it dove, the Gnerl simply rushed past through the gap that had opened- safe in that Dodger and Pinball in evading had also moved themselves out of a position to fire.

For his part, Dodger was now willing to let bygones to be bygones and allow the bandit to slip away if he felt the same way. There had already been too many close scrapes for so short a period of time today for Lindsey's liking.

They could always kill one another tomorrow.

But there was the other option too….

Dodger's ears were filled with the nerve-grating tone of the launch warning alarm as the single Gnerl that had survived the Furies moments earlier returned on a radical course reversal.

Had the alien pilot elected to paint his targets first for a weapons lock before firing, the Valkyrie's active ECM systems would have reacted automatically and either impaired or destroyed the Gnerl's attack radar- possibly precluding the launch.

Over the course of this engagement though and not just in this instance Dodger had seen Zentraedi pilots firing their missiles without locking on.

This change in tactics necessitated the firing of more missiles at a closer range to compensate for the possibility that the desired target might not be acquired- but it also shrewdly preserved the attacking Gnerl's sensor systems.

Sadly, the Zentraedi were learning to fight a new fight- and _quickly_.

Dodger searched for and spotted the salvo of missiles tracking him as the Gnerl that had fired them broke and peeled away from the engagement. The Valkyrie's automatic countermeasures filled the air with chaff, flares, and directed EM energy as the pilot calculated his best moment to actively evade the alien weapons that continued to home stubbornly.

 _-Wait…._

With a reflexive response akin to a fighter blocking a punch, the pilot subconsciously reacted at the optimal moment to snap-roll the fighter out of the path of the incoming missiles.

A flash stunned Dodger's eyes, but his world did not end. A nanosecond later, he did receive a swift kick in the ass that confirmed painfully that he was indeed still living.

A shriek of air escaping through a confined path fought with numerous automated alarms for Dodger's attention.

The pilot leveled his wings and twisted in his seat to check his own tail, noticing fracture lines in his canopy as he searched his rear hemisphere. There was no sign of any of the missiles that had been fired, or of the Gnerl that had fired them- but he was able to see at least one gash torn the dorsal airframe of his fighter.

Tenderly working the control stick and rudder pedals, Dodger found that the control surfaces were responding- a good sign- and that the engines sounded healthy.

Still, multiple system warnings blinked for his attention in the forward console's left MFD and the center MFD's _Common Operational Picture_ contained more inputs from the InfoLink-networked AWACs radar than what was being provided by his fighter's own.

But the Valkyrie was holding together.

"-Bandits are bugging out-.", Pinball announced, his voice sounding as winded as he might have at the end of a 300-meter dash, "Dodger, you still with me?!.."

"-Mostly-.", Dodger replied, noting his own breathless state and the coincidental pounding in both his chest and ears, "-She's handling fine, but my rear hemisphere radar is dark-… -And I've got a minor leak of silicon lubricant in the port engine-…"

"Yeah, and more holes in you then _Sonny fuckin' Corleone_ at that toll plaza-.", Pinball informed him, "-You still have pressure in your cockpit?"

As Pinball's fighter pulled alongside to port, Dodger noticed the extensive spider web of fractures in the acrylic canopy and looked up to find the material directly overhead to be far worse. A missile fragment had probably struck a glancing blow to the canopy and deflected off.

"-Yeah, leaking some pressure- but nothing penetrated."

"You gonna be able to bring `er in to Oasis?"

Dodger silenced the alarms one at a time, seeing that none of them were critical the Veritech's ability to fly- at least in the short-term.

"-I think so.", Dodger said, unnerved by the shaky sound in his voice and by feeling the jitters starting to set in, "I don't think I'm going to be good in the fight anymore though."

"Don't sweat it.", Pinball assured him, "We'll just tip-toe around the heavy stuff and bring you in smooth and easy."

Dodger shook his head slightly as he searched the sky carefully for any other threats.

"Any suggestions on how I'm going to explain this to Lyle?"

"None at all.", Pinball replied, "But we've got some time to figure something out."

"Good luck to us on that.", Dodger continued as low to the starboard side he caught a glimpse of Drover working his way back up to their altitude with a single, good engine. The Knight Hawk wondered if the Werewolf had a Lyle of his own with whom he would have to contend and answer for damage to his aircraft.

"What's this _us?.._ ", Pinball laughed, "The way I see it, you're the one who's fucked here."

"Thanks, wingman."

"Well, there's the enemy, and then there's _Lyle_ and his _babies_ …."

"..Maybe plowing in isn't such a bad option…"

"Maybe not."

Looking east toward where the battle had appeared to have picked up tempo again, Pinball saw a grouping of black dots just above the line of the horizon that with a moment's study appeared to be closing quickly.

The heart-stopping moment ended when the Valkyrie pilot's brain accepted what the indicator boxes on the interior of his visor were telling him.

The new bogeys were not hostile- but broadcasting ASC IFF squawk.

Not _friendly_ in Pinball's estimation with an understood and preexisting prejudice, but not _hostile._

A more welcome sight than Zentraedi in either case.

"Valkyrie flight of three to my twelve o'clock, this is Python Leader-. Are you receiving me?"

"This is Knight Hawk Eight.", Dodger replied, "Reading you five by five."

"Hi there, Knight Hawk-. We're here to escort you in to Oasis. What's your condition?"

"Two damaged, one nominal. We're all bingo on missiles."

"Copy that, Knight Hawk. We'll pull around in a minute here and you just slip into station in the middle. We'll give you a nice, smooth ride in."

The ASC squadron was now well within visual range and was revealed to be a flight of Phantom fighters. While they lacked the long reach of the Valkyrie in the weapons they carried, and many of the sophisticated features that Veritech pilots took for granted- they were there with apparently good intentions and could do more at the moment for the Valkyries than the Valkyries could do for themselves.

Dodger submitted to an uneasy trust.

Devoid of other options, it was an easy decision.

" **Walhalla"**

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

President Levin Valterven had assembled in the surrogate executive office the critical military advisors and staff, as well as Ministry representatives in the form of Ministers themselves, as well as the Senior Magistrate from the United Earth's highest legal court. Other official Presidential actions such as the issuance of executive orders and the enacting of laws under Valterven's time in office had been attended by larger audiences, so the scope and composition of this gathering had less to do with fanfare and publicity than it did with disclosure and accountability.

Valterven was demonstrating that the act to be consummated, though wholly legal, was one for which he would assume responsibility alone.

Valterven as a younger man before the Earth had known of hostile extraterrestrials, of Robotechnology, and well before The Global War had studied the disciplines of political science, economics, and finance at university. History had been a lesser interest, but the areas of art and literature he had applied academic energies to had been a matter of obligation per the requirements of his school.

A conscientious and driven student always, Valterven had applied himself to these areas of mild interest all the same, and now many years later he was vindicated in doing so for a simple association that seemed suddenly appropriate. It was the recollection of a literary figure whose tragic predicament had taken on a distinct resonance.

Faust.

Valterven was familiar from years in the vicious arena of politics that even the most carefully planned and outlined agreements carried with them ramifications that just could not be known at the signing of the contract.

In this aspect, the pact he was about to seal was no different.

But one could not argue that there was an unquestionable difference in implications of the act to be done.

All in the office suite felt it- the certainty that to do this thing was the _best_ possibility for the continued survival of the human race and the Zentraedi allies it had come to embrace. However, there was also the horrific certainty of what this act would mean for Zentraedi not even affiliated with the campaign of Supreme General Krymina?

And what of The Invid- the perpetual specter whose manifestation was only offset by their single-minded war against The Robotech Masters and the Zentraedi by extension?

These were the lessons of unpredictability in action that Valterven remembered now from Faust, only now the simplistic solution he'd taken away as a young man that it was best _to not make the deal_ was in this circumstance no solution at all.

President Valterven's Mephistopheles stood beside his desk, devoid of the signs of uncertainty and hesitation that showed to one degree or another on the faces of all others in the office suite. Colonel Nath continued her proposition with the icy exactness that was the signature of her personality and that seemed all that more apathetic given the subject's gravity.

"Per direction given from your Office through the Office of the Military Chief of Staff and the appropriate chain descending, Iago has been configured to attack and impair the operational, manufacturing, support, and resupply portions of the enemy's forces and infrastructure."

"Upon execution, critical flaws in the hardware and software systems that facilitate the enemy's war effort will begin to be introduced into their operational forces in a cascading fashion from their manufacturing centers down to the unit levels."

"Per your direction also, no malicious efforts will be actively undertaken by Iago on enemy personnel directly. Automated cloning activities will be suspended following maturation of the generation under manufacture at the time of Iago's initiation, but clones in stasis will not be terminated."

"The inception process will simply be disabled until we provide the countermand to re-enable it."

"No Zentraedi will be killed in stasis then?", Valterven asked, making clear by his tone his commitment to this point.

"No enemy clone will be harmed by Iago.", Colonel Nath replied, her voice retaining the sterility of one with a neutral stance on the matter.

"- _Zentraedi_." , Valterven corrected.

"Mr. President?"

Valterven placed his hands, palm down, onto his desk with an audible _thud_ as though engaging in a debate whose escalation was partially dependent upon body language to set the tone and importance of the issue to be disposed.

"I understand that they are the _enemy_ , but they are also _sentient beings_ , Colonel, and members of their race are also our _allies_ and contributing members of our society by choice-."

Whether or not an intentional act to provide example, Breetai took a half-step to his left and closer to where his long-time confidant and now advisor to the President, Exedore sat in one of the office's high-backed chairs.

If she had been oblivious to the fact before, Colonel Nath was now keenly aware that she was being studied with an extra measure of care by the half dozen Zentraedi officers and advisors in the room- though her expressionless face did not change in the least to suggest this.

"I want to hear the architect of a weapon that could potentially kill _billions_ of Zentraedi if it has not been _configured_ correctly or its impact not properly calculated to at least acknowledge the gravity of this undertaking by _at the very least_ referring to the enemy in this instance as _Zentraedi._ "

"Zentraedi.", Nath repeated with no more depth than had she been verbally cataloguing the furniture in the office.

Valterven found no comfort in the officer's concession, but she had obliged him.

"Mr. President", Breetai said unexpectedly and without solicitation, "I have been at war on a galactic scale since before the Earth enjoyed the benefits of electricity, so I have unique perspective on the risks involved in warfare on that scale. The probability of great loss of life is a near certainty, and one can only mitigate that risk but so much. I am satisfied that the proper safeguards to ensure that the loss of life will be no more than what is necessary have been put into place to the best of anyone's abilities."

"Whatever uncertainty remains has to be objectively leveraged against the length of the odds with which we will have to contend to achieve victory _without_ the blunting effect of Iago on the Te'Dak Tohl's war effort."

"My recommendation is firmly with execution."

"As is mine, Mr. President.", Exedore said, providing support but not _obligatory_ support to his former lord's position.

"This is far more than a moral issue. Whether this Iago virus is employed by our forces or not, there is the distinct possibility that the conflict we currently find ourselves in will arouse the attention of The Invid."

"We must consider not only wresting the Earth from the control of the Te'Dak Tohl, but also the possibility of being adequately prepared to defend against The Invid in a timeframe not previously considered."

"We must preserve our strength to preserve ourselves."

Valterven was gratified to receive endorsement from the two in his company who might have been expected to most vehemently oppose the execution of Iago, but in truth he had received this audience of advisors and officials with the decision to move forward already made.

"If there are any objections, reservations, or concerns about executing Iago, I want them voiced _now_."

Silence prevailed.

"Very well then.", Valterven said simply, "May God forgive me, for I see no other course-."

Valterven opened the plain folder on his desk containing the required order in meticulously drafted form. He uncapped the pen beside it and signed with a scratching of nib and paper that was exaggerated in its volume by the comparative quiet of the room

As President Valterven closed the folder, Colonel Nath reached over his desk and stabbed the keyboard before him with her thin finger until she reached the desired display on the wafer-thin monitor.

"-The command interface has been set up per your request, Mr. President."

The plain text box before Valterven read:

 **Do You Wish to Execute?**

 **YES NO**

Valterven's forefinger glided over the terminal's touch pad moving the cursor easily- _too easily_ \- over the desired option.

 _Click._

682


	9. A Collision of Mighty Opponents

**Chapter Eight**

 **A Collision of Mighty Opponents**

"It is inaccurate to say that to defeat one's enemy that one must _know_ one's enemy.

To defeat one's enemy, you should _know what your enemy fears._

I _know_ what the micronians fear, or what they _should fear_ \- even if they do not yet know it themselves.

The micronians should fear _me_ , and as an extension of me as much as is my right arm, they should fear Hesthira.

They will learn this fear and they will then be mine.

I have no need to _know_ the micronians.

When they have exhausted their usefulness to the Te'Dak Tohl and we have eradicated them from their own homeworld, we will fabricate what suits us for history to remember them by.

- _If,_ that is, we choose to remember them at all."

Sub-General Jekketh

Commander- Ground Forces,

7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl

 **RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain**

 _You're in it now, Andy Johnson._

What Andy now had come to internally refer to as "The Cedric Prophecy" had never seemed more relevant or more true.

He was definitely _in it_ , and with it only being Day Two at RDF Salamanca- it seemed he was in it up to his eyeballs.

As Major Branch (or _Twig_ as he insisted upon being called and which the training squadron was learning they could call him without fear of repercussion) had promised within the first three minutes of the first day, there _were_ fewer candidates in the classroom this morning than there had been the day before. Two, perhaps three- but there were fewer.

Oddly, Andy Johnson could not picture in his mind _who exactly_ it was that was missing, though he had made a point of trying to at least meet everyone else the day before.

It seemed now like a frivolous expenditure of energy to commit the names of all around him to memory, especially as the day's progression yesterday had revealed true and more urgent applications of memory and energy.

 _Basic Flight 1…_

 _Applied Mathematics 1…_

 _Military Air Power: Theory & Doctrine 1…_

 _Command and Leadership Principles 1..._

-Each course element to the dual officer/fighter pilot track on which Andy and the remaining candidates were on had been 150 minutes of intense, fast-paced classroom instruction- punctuated by a short lunch recess, followed by two hours of PT, an assigned and brief dinner seating time, followed by study and CEA, or "Classroom-External Assignments"- _homework._

Each course of study had had associated with it after the first day nearly 100 pages of reading before the CEA practicums- all of which Andy had managed with frenzied reading and work and had left him with just over an hour and a half to sleep before waking, preparing for morning inspection, and readying himself for Day Two.

He was _in it_ now.

If there were any consolations, they were that the candidates surrounding Airman Andy Johnson were scarcely doing any better under the yoke of study, and that Twig was demonstrating an unspoken sympathy for those who had shown up for the second day of the classroom section he was instructing.

A coffee pot and hot water dispenser with tea bags beside had appeared, and as the major plowed through his oration of course content he made a practice of walking the rows of desks silently offering from a pack of cigarettes as he went.

Andy had partaken of two by the second hour of Basic Flight 1 under the unblinking glare of the "No Smoking" sign, and having disposed of the butts burned down to the filters in his half-emptied mug of tea.

Normally, he might have considered this a waste of tea in a time when no one had the luxury to waste anything- but Andy and the other candidates around him had consumed liters of coffee and tea over the span of the previous night while riding the avalanche of study in the barracks common area.

Andy was, for the moment, sick of tea- and the cigarettes had a more immediate and potent rallying effect on him.

"…Soooooo-.", Twig continued, "-If you reduce air density for reasons of temperature, altitude, or even _baseline atmospheric pressure_ , you have to account for it in your reckoning of lift…"

Icy needles sank into Andy's neck, chilling down his spine, and across the backs of his arms as he realized he had been mentally drifting and had missed an untold portion of what Twig had been saying. In his state, Andy was fairly certain that he had read these things the night before and had made a concerted effort to commit the various equations that applied to the subject to memory- but that memory was failing him now.

-And by Twig's abrupt pause, it seemed that he had noticed.

Branch had been at the front of the classroom at the time he had paused in his monologue on calculating lift factors with common variables, standing very near to the speaking podium where the worn tennis ball had made a second appearance at the beginning of class.

Twig snatched the ball from the podium and hurled it overhand, like a Yank at baseball, across the room.

All the candidates started in their seats at the sudden display of aggression, with the exception of its target.

Andy anticipated the terminal point of the tennis ball's flight and found its target to be slumped in his chair, chin resting in light slumber on his chest. The young Dane, whose name Andy had learned but now struggled to remember in the fog of only ninety minutes sleep, exploded from his chair as the ball struck him soundly in the sternum. His feet tangled beneath him and he tumbled to the floor over them as the rest of the candidates sat in muted disbelief.

"-Now, _humidity_ is a variable as well in this equation, but let's deal with the basics first.", Twig continued as the Dane slid once again into his seat, crestfallen with governed shame.

Twig reached into the satchel of materials he had brought with him into class and retrieved a baseball that he set with a pronounced _thud_ onto the podium to emphasize without comment its greater weight and density.

 _Note to self, Andy- DON'T FALL ASLEEP!_

"-As I was saying-.", Twig progressed, "Baseline atmospheric pressure, altitude, and temperature-. Assuming an atmospheric composition such as the one we're used to here on good ole', _Ma Dirt_ we're going to run the equation a few times for an aircraft with a gross take-off weight of fifteen thousand kilos-. Volunteers?"

None.

Without missing a beat, Twig rattled off, "Aunt Moggie, Vittles, and What's-Your-Name with the freckles-. To the board please- you've been _voluntold_ for action."

Pamela Dunn, sitting the next seat over from Andy arched her back to stretch stiff muscles earned from sitting hunched over books for six hours and in doing so stretched delightfully the front of her utilities with their contents.

Those were a fond, but fading memory- and Andy found he didn't have the energy for that stroll down Memory ( _or was it "mammary"?.._ ) Lane.

.. _Focus, focus, focus… DON'T DRIFT!_

At the front of the classroom equations began to be worked based on the variables that Twig was providing.

Styluses clicked softly on the smart board as the airmen worked their task, and a faint odor of overwrought brain synapses starting to burn with the strain could be smelled across the room.

 **Medellin, Columbia**

All about there were clear indications of organized and regimented agricultural practices that gave the air of industrial production rather than oversight of a biological process.

Machines that at a glance were obviously designed, built, and used for the specific purpose of maintaining a very specific crop smoldered in their shelters having been set aflame in the not-so-distant past by their operators. Similarly, a portion of the "crop" itself had been put to the torch- but hastily and without the effect that a more carefully executed _scorched earth_ tactic would have achieved.

Given the probable saboteurs though, this was expected.

Darius saw many things that he expected here, on this alien world- the first he had ever set foot upon. The air to him was hot, though it was still hours from sunrise, and heavy with moisture that had caused beads of perspiration to stand out on his skin the moment he and Philisto had left the climate-controlled cabin of the shuttlecraft that had borne them to the planet in the carrier that was becoming more of a mobile home.

It was a minor discomfort though, and one that Darius accepted with only a mild grudge. He had _asked_ Supreme General Krymina to quickly seek out such places as this, and to secure them with a sense of urgency. Without ever having visited this world, or knowing anything of its inhabitants other than the rudimentary and military-oriented reports of Dolza's forces (mostly derived from Breetai's observations in his campaign to capture Zor's Battle Fortress) and to a greater extent the more focused reports from Kevtok's expedition- Darius had still been confident that he would find this.

And here it was.

Rows of The Invid Flower of Life stood all about him like fruit trees in a great orchard, stretching farther than could be seen in the darkness and through a thinning haze of smoke from the ineffective attempt of their former caretakers to burn them.

"This operational sector has eight plots such as this, some even larger.", said Action Commander Kroy as she surveyed her uncontested conquest from within the unnecessary armored protection of her Nacht-Rau combat suit.

The Serhot Ran officer, in addition to her entire company of Te'Dak Tohl elite, had been ordered by Supreme General Krymina personally to provide an escort and protection Darius and Philisto in their brief separation from _Artoc_.

Darius had no illusions nor did he mistake the precaution as _caring for their safety_. Krymina was guarding an asset.

Nothing more.

"Are the other fields in a similar state?", Philisto asked, looking less worn than was his norm- perhaps invigorated by the feeling of soil beneath his feet and unprocessed air in his lungs.

"Yes.", Kroy responded, "Those are the fields in this sector. Across the region, where there are far more- I have no knowledge. It is reasonable to assume that their condition will average out to the same."

"We should _know_ , though- not _assume_.", Darius said, perhaps a little too sharply for his position relative to the Serhot Ran officer. He quickly added, "-Meaning that Supreme General Krymina demands a higher degree of solidity in what is reported to her than assumption."

Kroy, sounding only mildly irritated by the impertinence of the Tirolian, replied, "I am aware of that. Our first responsibility was to identify and secure these sites. We have done that. Survey parties of science technicians are being deployed as we speak to assess the condition of the fields."

Darius was visibly taken aback, "I was not aware of that. Why was I not told?"

"There was no need to tell you.", Kroy replied with simple military certainty, "The decision was outside of your scope to make."

"I see.", Darius replied, not concerned that the indignation carried through clearly with his words, "-And beyond the survey teams' _assessment_ of the standing crop?"

It was now Action Commander Kroy's turn to be caught off guard, "I do not understand your meaning, Tirolian."

"I mean, once they have _assessed_ the condition of this crop of The Flower of Life, they are prepared to harvest it? -Process it? Tend to the next crop? Future crops for as long as Supreme General Krymina cares to hold this repugnant, backwards world?"

"I could not say.", Kroy replied, saying in her lack of response to the series of questions that she had in fact no answer to them.

"And I doubt Krymina could, nor could your _survey teams_ of _science technicians_."

"Isn't that _your_ purpose?"

"No.", Darius said without apology, "I have no more knowledge in the care of The Flower of Life than I do in conducting your duties, Action Commander."

Kroy's irritation was showing clearly now, and causing Philisto visible distress as her subordinates were beginning to take notice as well and gather.

"Then why _are_ you here?"

"To think of such things, clearly.", Darius said- his voice thick with superiority, "May I offer a suggestion, Action Commander?"

"There seems to be no stopping you.", Kroy said harshly.

"This farm clearly required a cadre of specialists and trained workers, not unlike one of your combat units- would you agree?"

"That follows reasonable thought.", Kroy said, her voice cautious at the risk of being made fool of by the sharp-tongued Tirolian.

"-And it would also follow that in laboring here, they would have to reside in some proximity. -Correct?"

"I agree."

"-And as your attack smashed much of the transportation infrastructure in the area, I would suspect that these specialized workers cannot have traveled far in the time since this area was secured."

"That is likely.", Kroy agreed, now following Darius's path of thought.

"Then", Darius said with confidence of the foundation he had just verbally built, "-I would strongly suggest beginning to locate these specialized workers before they slip anonymously into the wild. This whole invasion will be for nothing if The Flower of Life cannot be harvested and goes sallow in the field."

"Your recommendation is noted.", Kroy said, the thought having clearly set in her mind that was now building upon it.

"-And Action Commander-.", Darius added.

"Yes?"

"Feel free to claim that idea as your own. Supreme General Krymina rewards forward thinking that benefits her causes."

"Noted.", Kroy replied, the irritation having returned strongly to her voice, "Is there any additional _wisdom_ that you care to impart on us on how to identify and enlist these _specialized workers_? I'm confident that volunteerism will not be at a high rate."

"I haven't a clue.", Darius said, admitting ignorance in a necessary area for the second time freely, "-But I strongly suspect that I do know someone who may have insight."

" **Oasis"- ASC Durango Base,**

 **Mexico**

From the shaking of the earth and the omnipresent thunder that gave the air its own pulse, one could have been forgiven for believing that ASC Durango Base was the epicenter of some developing cataclysm of Biblical proportion.

The truth was not far from this, though the cataclysm to come was not a matter of Divine wrath or originating in any sense from The Almighty-.

There _was_ a cataclysm to come- this much was certain and unavoidable at this point, but its making was equal part Terran and extraterrestrial- and _neither_ was in the least interested in avoiding the violence that the preparations all around ASC Durango Base were building toward.

The vibrations of the air rose and fell in intensity and volume like the movements of a symphony whose orchestra was the engines of the aircraft arriving at and departing from the base's aerodrome and airfields that formed the western and southern fringes of the immense post with their interconnected facilities and infrastructure.

What would have been improbable if not unimaginable to see weeks or even days before, even under the RDF/ASC agreements of Operational Initiative: Gemini - the sight of multitudes of RDF-AF and ASC-AF fighters and ground attack aircraft taking off in composite flights was now regular to the point of being mistaken for routine.

Less hurried in their lumbering nature, but as constant in their movement as the fighters and ground attack aircraft leaving runways were the cargo aircraft. From the RDF-AF's CT-4 variants of the Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pods, to C-5s, C-17s, a pair of Soviet-era Antonov 124s – still the largest cargo aircraft ever designed and built by Man- and even a showing of venerable C-130 Hercules whose 60-year old and prop-driven design did not deter them from contributing to the movement of critical supplies to Durango Base.

The effort was warranted.

Durango was receiving war supplies of countless description at a pace that the combined efforts of the ASC and hosted RDF logisticians and the general labor pulled from the other MOS sets on post were having difficulties matching. Ordinance and munitions, critical parts, equipment, and tools were piled high with the unloading of every transport and somehow, miraculously trundled away in time for the next cargo plane to be serviced. The raw materials needed by engineers to construct the facilities to house, store, and support were frequently found beside the material that was to be sheltered. Field generators to augment the base's own power generation facilities were arranged in rows and columns beside the enormous spools of wire and mobile sub-station nodes that would be required to improvise power grids. Coms gear, C4I equipment, mobile field hospitals, mobile mess, wash and latrine facilities, along with supplies and consumables required to make them viable accumulated to support the flood-like influx of personnel.

-And there _was_ a constant flood of both ASC and RDF personnel arriving.

From maintenance crews and engineers to cooks and payroll clerks, every MOS in the catalog of military professions was being provided for and all with the single, common goal of supporting the relative few who would actually carry the fight to the enemy.

The hardware of war was present and massing as well at Durango Base.

Machines of every kind, from conventional armor that dated back to The Global War to the latest generations of RDF and ASC mecha arrived by transport or under its own power for brief stays on the base's assembly areas and marshalling yards before being moved out to positions best suited for their roles in the order of battle.

All of these simultaneous operations were analogous to not a single dance of equipment, personnel, material, and activities, but rather _multiple_ dances to different tempos that had to come together and mesh like the gear wheels of a precision stopwatch if there was to be a reasonable chance of victory.

It was a daunting challenge that was the foundation for the cooperative fight to be carried forward by the RDF and ASC, and one that rightfully would have caused a healthy dose of concern for anyone who stopped to think about all of the possible points of failure for too long. The saving grace however was that no one on ASC Durango Base was blessed with an abundance of time to pause and think about anything outside of their own job.

Lieutenant Colonel Winters was no different in the respect that he was aware of all of the activities going on around him, but gave them only the energy and attention to _notice._ One could too easily get distracted by or lost in any of the multitude of duties being executed all about- and he, as commanding officer of 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron had his own concerns.

He had last seen the Valkyries of his squadron, including his own, parked unflatteringly and in regulation-violating proximity to one another on the side of a runway apron whose designation he had been forced to scribble onto a scrap of paper lest he forget and lose his aircraft in this boiling sea of operations. Lyle- like a mother hen watching over her clutch of eggs- had naturally and dutifully stayed with the Veritechs- four of which would require servicing and repair before they were fit again for action.

Though this assured that the Valkyries of Knight Hawk Squadron would be well shepherded, it did not promise that they or Lyle's support team watching over them would be easily found again- especially if moved as was possible if not likely.

Even where the squadron was to call "home" for the duration of their time at Durango was questionable. An open field behind a hangar complex had been identified, but at a glance had revealed that the engineers had not even prepared the site for the tent city that would be raised there judging by the semi-organized stacks of building materials and shipping crates that could be seen in a corner of the plot.

These were not problems to Winters though, merely minor and distant considerations of comfort in the context of the purpose that had brought him and his squadron again into ASC territory.

Winters' immediate concern was accounting for _all_ of his pilots- which was a task that had him now traversing the constantly changing landscape of Durango Base with Vice and Captain Israel "Isn't" Cohen in search of the heliport complex.

General directions from an RDF-AF captain whose information had prompted the jaunt the three Knight Hawks were on, and three separate interactions with ASC personnel to confirm and augment those directions had not gotten the Valkyrie pilots to their intended destination as directly or as quickly as they had wanted. Only the increasing number of helicopters flying over- Lakotas, Aztecs, and seen by the Valkyrie pilots personally for the first time, a number of the ASC-Army AJACS- gave a clear indication that they were headed in the right direction.

"Look at that-.", Cohen said as a flight of the transformable mecha flew overhead in their helicopter form, "- Rotary-wing _tanks_. Leave it to the ASC, eh?"

With the muted light conditions being kept on the base for operational security concerns, the AJACS flight had been identifiable by distinctive, deep sound of their rotors only as they had passed over. At best the Valkyrie pilots had gotten only glimpses of their bulky airframes by the strobe of their running lights that were kept on per safety regulation while overflying the post.

"- _Yeah_ -.", scoffed "Vice" Vincenz, "-The ASC and whoever taught `em how to actually make that shit work-."

"Still don't think the ASC boys could pull it out of their asses themselves, Vice?", Cohen asked, resuming a debate that he and Vincenz had joined several times in moments when nothing more pressing demanded their attention.. With his family heritage rooted soundly in and intertwined with Israel and the Israeli military services from the time of that state's conception to the time of its dissolution of sovereignty to become part of The United Earth- it had been Cohen's position that a people driven by issues of survival _could_ accomplish seemingly impossible things.

"Isn't", Vice replied with equal certainty, "-I think they could have more easily pulled _flying unicorns_ out of their own asses."

Clearly Vincenz hadn't budged on his position.

"-They went from being a minimum of thirty-six months from having their neural interface systems ready for initial testing to fielding operational mecha overnight-. _No one_ is _that_ good, Isn't. They stole the shit from us, or bought it from someone who stole it for them."

Ever the fan of pulp fiction crime novels, Cohen seized upon the moment with equal parts jubilation and intrigue in his voice, "-Ah, a mystery then!.."

Vincenz forced a laugh, "Sure, in our abundant spare time let's figure out who sold the ASC the secret Wonka Bar recipes…."

"Everyone needs a hobby, Vice-."

"- _Take up needlepoint!.._ ", Winters snapped, his voice saturated with irritation as he stopped on a plot of baked earth short of a cluster of hangars that was no different in its rows of hastily deposited, crate-laden transport pallets and scrubby desert plants than the last four hanger clusters and plots of baked earth that the Valkyrie pilots had already traversed.

"-I swear to God, the two of you are going to drive me to drink- _more_ \- if you don't stop prattling on about _nothing_ like two old women on line at market!"

Vincenz and Cohen both recognized immediately that this was one of those "delicate" situations to be dealt with carefully and with great caution.

Beside the inconvenience of the errand the three pilots were on, despite the relief to the squadron it had followed, the sun had been down for nearly three hours and the air was still humid and hot enough to broil steaks

All had been without a wink of sleep or a moment's pause for coming up on eighteen hours, "Go Pills" were long since worn off-.

…And worst of all, Winters was without his cigarettes.

The squadron commander had left his executive officer, Dalton, behind to tend to the multitude of details involved in settling the squadron in at Durango and in doing so had left behind without thinking his ready supply of nicotine-delivering smokes.

Vincenz and Cohen had from their place in trail seen Winters come to this realization some three hundred meters into their trek across the unending expanse of the ASC Air Force component of Durango Base. He had said nothing, but from that moment they could see the demon begin to work with increasing torment upon the CO.

The blow-up had been inevitable.

"Want a cigarette, Jack?", Vincenz said, offering up the pack he was carrying and the contents that he too had started to crave some minutes before but had abstained for fear of an eruption of _Mt Winters_ \- as had just happened.

Winters snatched the pack, opting not to comment on the brand favored by his wingman.

" _Yes, I want a fucking cigarette… please."_

Cohen had his silver Zippo, emblazoned with a winking smiley face, lit before Winters had extracted a filtered tranquilizer from the pack offered by Vincenz.

And with that, the angry bear was soothed.

Mostly-.

"Where in the name of mercy is this place anyway?..", Winters snarled with the frustration of the directions he had been given to their destination having more to them than what had been told.

Another flight of helicopters flew over, concealed in darkness and in the direction of the hangars towards which the pilots had been moving.

"-I'm guessing _that way_ , Jack.", Cohen said, sounding more patronizing in speaking than the words had sounded first in his head.

Winters expression soured further.

"You know that I've never liked you, right?.. _Never_."

God, Winters found often when he most needed the reminding, had odd and subtle ways of showing His infinite love and benevolence.

Case in point, it was sometimes a cigarette when one was most needed, or to find that the helipads that had been sought for what had seemed an eternity were indeed just beyond one last set of hangars.

Other times, God showed His love with a small display of humor in the form of other souls whose day had been _far worse_ than Winters'.

The wash from the rotor blades of the Lakota "slick" transport hit the Valkyrie squadron commander with the first breath of moving air he had felt since his fighter had rolled to a stop on the tarmac hours earlier. As refreshing as a large dog's breath, it was still an improvement as it was at least moving.

From within the dark recesses of the slick's crew compartment, uniformed men and women mostly carrying duffles tumbled out and were quickly met by various other uniformed personnel who like Winters and his pilots had come to the heliport with the intention of meeting someone.

Then appeared and dismounted the individual that the Knight Hawks had come seeking.

Captain Hamilton "Piglet" Vought from Dalton's B-Flight, and Cohen's wingman hit the ground- wincing slightly and looking as though he'd picked a fight with a professional boxer- _twice_. Some physical discomfort, to say the least, could be expected following an ejection seat egress from a Valkyrie fighter followed by a parachute ride into the sea.

With the squadron's assistance, Vought's pride could be expected to smart for much longer.

Overall it had not been a bad day, the loss of Vought's Valkyrie not withstanding.

One Valkyrie lost, four damaged and in need of service before they could be allowed back into action- but no one had been killed.

Not yet.

The melee over the Sea of Cortez however had only been a fight _to get to the fight._

Winters was not going to dwell on it though- not while sweeter work was presently at hand.

Lieutenant Colonel Neil "Dingo" Duggan tumbled out of the Lakota next, looking as equally beaten and disheveled as Piglet- but with a more brooding aura about him. The 1017th Werewolves were not known to be as gentle with their teasing of pilots whose performance gave reason for ridicule. –And a squadron leader was a particular treat.

Duggan, normally easy-going in that rough and tumble, Australian way wore a stormy look that said that he was not in the mood to be trifled with, and also that he knew that the abuse would come regardless.

"Well, I guess pigs _don't_ fly-.", Winters said with wry amusement as Vought approached his fellow pilots to submit to the inevitable.

" _Up yours, Jack_ -.", Vought growled back, overlooking the matter of rank in the exchange, "I've had a _shitty_ day… I got shot down, kicked in the nuts by a parachute harness, dropped in the drink, was almost _fucked by a dolphin_ , and to boot it turns out I'm now two centimeters shorter."

"-Well, just two centimeters isn't awful..", Cohen said, trying to be inconspicuous in his attempt to verify that the ejection seat ride had indeed reduced Vought in height.

Vought, who had consistently been able to make good eye contact with Cohen's chin snapped back, "Easy for you to say, _beanpole_. – _And by the f'in' way, I'm blaming you for this! Wingman, my ass!_ "

Cohen went defensive, "Hey, I'd just cleared three dittos off your ass- I missed the fourth. –And _technically speaking,_ he was a _stray_ \- he came out of nowhere. That doesn't really count."

"No, that _does_ count-.", Vought steamed, "-Counts to the tune of _two centimeters_ -."

"Are you okay otherwise, Piglet?", Vice asked offering a cigarette and having it taken without hesitation.

Vought glared at Vincenz, his eyes appropriately reflecting the flame from Cohen's lighter as lit the cigarette for him.  
"-What part of the description I just gave of my day sounds _okay_ , Vice?"

Vincenz shook his head, disengaging without further comment.

Cohen relented as well from his meager attempts to make nice, "There's just going to be no discussing this with you rationally, is there?"

" _No_."

Winters intervened, mostly wanting to save some torment for later.

"The important thing is that you're not too banged up, Piglet. And you can't blame Isn't- his faith demands that he keep the skies kosher."

"Fist yourself, Jack."

Winters looked to Duggan who had time to brace up, and who actually beat him to the punch.

" _Double_ fist yourself, Jack."

"I didn't say anything to you-."

" _-Yet_ … It was coming.", Duggan said astutely.

"-I thought dingoes liked water-."

Duggan scowled bitterly, "- _And there it is_ -."

Winters knew the point at which to back down- and having passed it decided that now was actually a good time to ease off. There were _levels_ of torment, and a semi-good natured razzing had its limits.

"Come on then, SAR did their part, let's get you chaps back the rest of the way. Peckish at all?"

Duggan waited for the roar of multiple jet engines from the airfields to subside enough for conversation to resume before saying, "-All that going on, and you're saying we have time to stop by the mess?"

Winters shrugged, "It's going to be a bit before they can put us into the shuffle. –And it's not like the two of you have planes to fly anyway- not until the replacements arrive at any rate."

"You know you're an asshole, Jack- you know that, right?"

Winters accepted truth as truth, "Don't knock it- it's a fantastic job. The hours are flexible and there's no heavy lifting involved."

Lyle kicked at the dense, sun-hardened earth near the scattering of cigarette butts- mostly his own- that had accumulated there over the past three hours. Another drag on his Marlboro Red rewarded him with a flash of heat at his fingertips and lips telling him he'd reached the end of that cigarette as well. Blowing out the smoke into the haze of his own creation, he flicked the butt to the ground to join its friends.

There was little else to do.

"-What unit did you say you were with again, Colonel?-.", asked the flustered voice on the other end the encrypted cell phone that Dalton had received with a three-page printout of RDF-AF support contacts.

Dalton understood the frustration, there were multiple moving parts in motion upon multiple _other_ moving parts, and the necessary pieces were going to need time to come together. Dalton had sympathy, but did not have the luxury of time to allow the critical support he needed _now_ to gel and normalize.

"I'm XO of the 623rd Squadron, 304th Composite Wing-.", Dalton repeated, "-Look, Captain, I'm not asking you to set me up on a date with Playmate of the Year- I've had four damaged Valkyries sitting on a tarmac awaiting routing orders for service and repair for three hours. On top of that, I've got a plane captain whose going to smoke himself into emphysema because he and his crew have been standing around with their thumbs up their asses waiting for the opportunity to do their damn jobs. What we're waiting on is to find out is _where to pull in_ -."

"Yes, sir- I _got that_ , Colonel, it's just that we've got a lot of birds needing the dings knocked out and the ASC is being stingy with garage space-."

" _Make it happen for me, Captain…_ ", Dalton said, his voice not quite a growl.

"-I've got you sheltered in Hangars Twenty-Two Five, and Twenty-Two Six, is that correct, sir?"

Dalton glanced back to the occupied hangars joined to the tarmac on which Knight Hawk Squadron's Valkyries stood, confirming the numbers, "Yeah, we'll go with that answer."

"Then I can get you into the queue at Repair 16- but there's a line."

Dalton shook his head, anticipating a long and generally restless night, "Done- I'll take it. Any chance of a tow?"

There was a pause from the captain on the other end of the line, "Valkyries, right?"

"Yeah, that's us."

"Better walk `em, sir- until we can get more RDF handling equipment on the ground."

"Right-.", Dalton said, relieved at least to have established a line to enter, and remembering what Winters had said much earlier that morning, added, "It's that kind of war-."

"- _Anythang_?..", Lyle asked, hope clinging stubbornly to him.

"We're in the queue for Repair 16- but it ain't gonna happen fast."

" _Sheeyt_ -.", Lyle said, ignoring the urge to have another cigarette- more out of conservation than concern for his own health, "What `round here does?"

"Yeah, I'm getting the sense that the ASC's hospitality only goes so far."

"Ah think y'could call it sure money in a bet-."

Dalton conceded the point without comment and scratched his head in thought on the more pressing topic.

"Lyle, what can you do with the facilities at hand?"

The plane captain snorted, thinking for a half-moment that the executive officer was joking- but after an additional moment's thought responded, " _Whell_ , figurin' we could run over `n draw the parts we need fer Skinny `n Pinball's birds, we could probably get ta work on `em right here-. But Reaper `n Scooter's-. Naw, that's engine `n mechanical work. I wouldn' wanna even try that out here without the right equipment unlessin' Ah had ta-."

"Well, Lyle- I'd start thinking about how you would if you had to because you can never tell when that day will come.", Dalton warned before returning to the original exchange, "In the meantime though, my grasp of basic math still tells me that working on two to get them back into the fight is still better than working on none. Can you swing it?"

Mildly insulted, Lyle replied with a scoffing laugh, " _Like it was mah own proud pecker_."

"I don't even want to know the context of that last comment."

Winters in the company of Vincenz, Cohen, and sullen-looking Vought and Duggan had somehow made his approach without being noticed. It did not surprise Dalton in the least as between his own mounting weariness, the noise, and the ambient swelter of Durango Base- a Destroid could have probably crept up on him over a carpet of broken glass.

"-Jack…", Dalton said, feigning relief, "Just in time to hear me finishing up those details associated with running a squadron-."

"What can I say, Freddy- _you complete me._ Look who I found though-."

Dalton had taken notice of the two SAR-recovered pilots whose generally whipped appearance had caused him to hold on immediately acknowledging them.

"Piglet, Dingo- glad you're still with us. You okay?- More or less?.."

Duggan motioned back and forth between Winters and Dalton in a physical demonstration of contrasts.

"See- at least someone on this scorpion-infested post can lead off with a word or two of concern-."

"Freddy's slow to warm up.", Winters countered, "-Don't worry about them Freddy, they're fine- they've been griping the whole walk back. I was going to find a working mess or field kitchen and get them a nibble. They've had two helpings of crow and half a jellyfish between them since before wheels-up this morning."

"I could see that being the cherry, Jack-. Anyone would be a little short-."

Vought rolled his eyes in disgust, " _You two are a regular Martin and Lewis, you know that?-."_

Winters interjected, "Nevermind him, Freddy- I'll explain later. Tag along? Give the ASC cooks a chance to kill you before the dittos?-."

"Sure- I'll take the time to bring you up to speed on repairs. I thought I smelled something like coffee coming from that way over there-.", Dalton accepted, motioning vaguely to an area of hastily raised tents by permanent structures that soon would be the model for a number of facilities on Durango.

"Whell, _Ah'm_ gonna stay `n do _work_ -.", Lyle muttered bitterly, "`N _you…._ "

Vought registered that he was being spoken to by the plane captain and had not escaped the hell he knew to be coming.

Lyle raised his right foot and slapped the side of the western boot's cracked and faded brown leather, "See this?.. _This boot, `n yer ass-_ they got an `pointment later to talk `bout a plane. Ya hear?"

Vought gave a two-fingered, half-hearted salute, "Right- _boot, ass, later_."

Winters stepped in to clear Piglet's tail figuratively, "Lyle, haven't you patched my squadron back together yet? You've had three hours…"

" _Workin' on it_ -.", Lyle replied, shaking his head, "Think ya can at least geyt someone ta watch our backs as we're stitchin' mah babies back t`gether?"

"Watch your backs from what?"

Lyle nodded across the tarmac, "From _them_ -."

Winters followed the direction of Lyle's nod and started slightly with genuine surprise.

When he, Cohen, and Vincenz had left to recover Vought from the base's heliport complex, the half of the tarmac opposite from where Knight Hawk Squadron's Valkyries had been parked had been empty and the doors to the three hangars closed.

Now that portion of the tarmac was alive with activity surrounding what at a glance was a reduced squadron of ASC "Logan" Veritechs.

Winters had of course seen video and photographs of the ASC's experiment into transformable aircraft/mecha, had read the intelligence reports that had yielded little about the alarming surge in development from early prototypes to functioning, fielded combat platforms- and had scratched his head with others in the RDF.

Seeing them in the "flesh" however, and being in such proximity was an entirely different experience.

Winters first impression was the same as when he had first seen a photograph.

There was nothing _elegant_ about the Logan- nothing that took him with awe and a schoolboy's infatuation the way the sleek lines and thoroughbred aura of a Valkyrie still did.

The Logan, from its blunt, broad, rounded snout with its bulbous bubble canopy and projecting its centerline-mounted ion cannon to the twin-humps of its compact but reportedly powerful engines that rode atop the airframe astern- it looked brutish and unrefined.

-At the same time though, each physical characteristic reflected what the ASC had become renown for in the design of first its mecha, and now its _transformable_ mecha- _functionality._ There was nothing inspiring about the Logan to Winters, but there was no aspect of the compact brute that he could see from a distance that did not clearly state a purpose.

One day, Winters found himself fearing, he might even have to grant the midget attack aircraft a level of respect-.

 _One day._

An abundance of ASC technicians and mechanics were at work on a pair of Logans within the ample space of one of the hangars on that side of the tarmac. Though the details of their repair activities were concealed by the number of technicians at work within the hangar in the background, and by those performing more routine maintenance and servicing on the aircraft on the tarmac in the foreground- it was clear that removal and replacement of the Logan's modular parts and components where it was needed could be done without use of some of the equipment that analogous work on a Valkyrie would have required. Winters recognized instantly that with trained support, a minimal set of tools, and a level area of field, the Logan could be brought back from minor to moderate repair into a fully serviceable condition. It was a quality that had been incorporated into Valkyries in their design and development- a contribution from the Russian MiG family- but it had been a quality with limits and qualifications.

Winters in his few moments of observation also sensed that the ASC personnel were _allowing_ this glimpse of one of their new accomplishments- _boastfully_ even.

Their gloating would be made at a distance though-. The line of body armor clad and fully armed guards who stood post beyond the servicing activities on the Logans, and between them and the RDF representation on the other side of the tarmac were assurance of that.

"Stand tall, chaps-.", Winters said, twirling his cane head swagger stick into the crook of his armpit, "It's the _competition_ -."

"Think they'd let me borrow that hangar fer a few hours?..", Lyle asked speculatively.

"Don't give them the satisfaction of asking, Lyle.", Winters said.

Dalton added, sounding distant in recollection, "-Yeah, remember when you were a kid and someone else on the block got a new, shiny, red wagon?- They're just waiting for us to come over to ask for a see-."

Lyle grunted distastefully at the thought of his children being upstaged by anything, "Mah solution was ta wait fer tha li'l bastard to leave his precious wagon out overnight `n I took it apart."

Amused, Winters laughed, "That was rather _ungracious_ of you, old boy-. I like your thinking though. Freddy, let's go before they get to thinking that we're somehow jealous."

The walk from the tarmac to one of the many field kitchens that had popped up literally under the cover of tents around post was not a lengthy one and was considerably more pleasant for all since with the addition of Dalton to the group, Winters had access again to his cigarettes. The mess tent itself was nothing special or different from any of the others with its aluminum and plastic bench-seating tables packed into tight columns and rows beneath harsh, white LED lighting fixtures. Not even fully established yet, the serving line of gleaming stainless steel and aluminum did not even have heated or chilled Type B rations in the serving tray slots, but MREs kept replenished from an open box within sight in the back.

While Vought and Duggan were quick to flip through the offerings of complete meals sealed in their NBC-resistant plastic envelopes driven understandably by hunger, Winters and Dalton gravitated more quickly to the beverages further down the line.

Dalton paused by the heated coffee urn, weighing the virtues of caffeine versus taking in hot liquid and then having to leave the moderately cooled environment of the mess tent for the sultry air outside. After visible thought, he instead moved to the urn of "iced" tea- actually only cooled to just noticeably below room temperature where like Winters, and Cohen before him he drew a paper cup full as Vincenz struggled with the decision between similarly offered "red" and "purple" powdered fruit punches.

"Any word from Wing or Ganyet on when we might see action?", Winters asked sitting at table in the mix indiscriminately and by doing so prompting his subordinates to do the same.

Sitting beside him, Dalton shrugged, "No word. Short of a scramble situation, they've got a checklist they're having to run to gear us up for the fight."

"Checklist? Such as?"

"Software upload for one thing.", Dalton replied, "Supposed to let us tie into the ASC C2 to a limited extent."

"They can keep it.", Winters said dismissively, unconcerned by the fact that he was sitting in an ASC-provided mess tent with a half dozen ASC-AF support personnel seated also at tables nearby.

"Yeah, well word has it that they're working on the same thing to let the ASC tie into InfoLink- in a _limited way_ , of course.", Dalton added.

"Ballocks."

"No shit.", Dalton said, "But the thinking of course is that we need to be reading off of the same playbook to fight this thing. I suppose there's some legitimacy to that."

"And why not hasten the ASC's next technological leap forward at the same time?", Winters observed.

"Yeah, kinda funny how the hardware on their side is readily adaptable, isn't it?"

"Hysterical.", Winters said flatly.

Vought and Duggan had found their way to the table opposite Winters and the other pilots who had arrived at Durango by their own means. Pocket knives had opened the outer packaging of MREs, and had allowed their contents to be spilled out onto the table to be sorted through and consumed with gusto that only hunger could inspire with field rations.

Both pilots ate something resembling "beef" stew out of plastic entrée envelopes, pausing periodically for sips of their drinks or to punctuate the entrée with bites of saltine crackers that were roughly the size and consistency of drink coasters.

"Think Lyle'll have us wired and glued back together by the time Wing gets orders for us?", Vought asked- not letting on whether he was forgetting that his Valkyrie was far beyond what even DeVeo and his team could do for it, and on the bottom of The Sea of Cortez to boot.

Dalton reminded him, "Well, until we get into flying rotations or the replacement Valkyries arrive, I'd say it doesn't matter much to you, Piglet."

A mirthful expression came over Duggan's face as he said, "The benefit of being a squadron leader though is that I get to make flight assignments, isn't that right, Jack-O?... The first bastard that gives me guff-. I'm not missing the fight, I'll tell you that _now._ "

Understanding completely the source of Duggan's amusement, Winters agreed, "It's one of the perks, isn't it, Dingo? The wanton abuse of power-."

"Well, I'm glad the two of you find it all so gratifying-.", Vought began, building in his voice toward something caustic.

Then he stopped mid-chew and mid-sentence.

Winters felt a flutter of panic for a moment, suspecting by the sudden, distressed look that came over Vought's face that he was in the opening moments of some sort of episode that the SAR medics who had cleared him following his rescue had not been able to anticipate.

Unfortunately, it was worse than that.

Vought was looking up and beyond Winters to behind the squadron CO- to where the voice came from next.

" _Kemosabe and Tanto-!_ Welcome back to Southern Cross turf, boys!.."

The fluid in Winters' spine iced as he rose from the table, drawing his .44 revolver as he turned.

Lt Col Warren "Mojo" Mathias didn't flinch as the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson grazed the tip of his nose and the cylinder rotated with the heavy click of the hammer being thumbed back.

 _ **Artoc**_

The great flagship's command deck rose up on all sides like an enormous cavern of martial technology. Holographic displays, both two-dimensional screens and three-dimensional images mostly relaying navigational or tactical information hovered in suspense in the air over the stations requiring them at various points across the deck. The significant chirps and tones of systems functioning merged with a base murmur of voices and provided a chorus to ongoing operations.

At the moment, the tone, volume, and tempo of sounds reflected the nominal progression of activities both aboard _Artoc_ and in the multiple areas of operation on the alien world some light-minutes away.

By any quantifiable or measurable standard, it could be said that things were going well.

Not all things were quantifiable however, and the fact of present conditions and activities being well and within the parameters of what was expected was not an assurance of what was to come.

Sub-General Caldettas understood this and was acutely aware that the successes of careful planning and execution could be rapidly undone by giving action to urgent whim.

And this was what had Caldettas walking the command deck- the frail effort to monitor for signs that obedience to a whim might show the beginnings of the unravelling of plans and their execution.

"Lord, Action General Grul's battle group has departed. All search elements are now deployed."

Caldettas received the report with a silent nod from the action commander overseeing fleet operations. It was an expected report furthering the reaching of an ends, but not necessarily an ends with priority or very much benefit in Caldettas's mind.

"-Lord", added the action commander, "At the risk of questioning Supreme General Krymina's orders, I am obligated to point out that as the Fleet remaining in this system stands deployed now, we are putting ourselves at a tactical risk."

"A risk such as what, Action Commander?", Caldettas asked.

Momentarily looking uncomfortable with the prospect of standing apart from the direction and flow of operations, the action commander did relent.

"Lord, we have deployed the majority of our heavy battle groups to numerous positions in an effort to search for Breetai and Zor's Battle Fortress. If they were to be needed, they could not be recalled to this system quickly for action."

"We still have a sizable force of destroyers, Action Commander-.", Caldettas pointed out with hollow confidence, "A larger force than the alien micronians could possibly have. At worst, that puts us on even odds with our enemy."

"Numerically, yes.", the action commander agreed, "But our force is divided between running picket and support operations around the alien world, running patrols of this system, and acting as screen for our landing and supply ships. This weakens us somewhat."

" _Somewhat._ ", Caldettas reminded the action commander, "Duty often requires risk, both calculated risks and unknown ones. It's Supreme General Krymina's tolerance for risk that determines our operational threshold. Be mindful of that."

"I obey, Lord- even when I do not understand.", the action commander replied, breaking in his pursuit of answers.

"As we all must, from time to time.", Caldettas assured him, glancing briefly at the command bubble at the rear of the chamber that he knew to be occupied.

Parting company with the action commander, Caldettas continued on his random walk between the duty stations but was unable to let the exchange slip from his mind.

The action commander had been correct.

Caldettas had known that the main objective of the campaign was being put in danger- minimal as it was- by Supreme General Krymina's decision to apply substantial resources to the search for Breetai the moment that she had made it.

Over four hundred areas had been identified by the intelligence staff as _feasible_ locations to where Breetai and his alien allies _might_ have taken refuge. These areas scattered throughout a1.5 kiloparsec sphere were identified with the clear caveat that they were candidates because they possessed advantageous qualities suited to hide a force the size of the one the aliens were known to have. Nothing was assured. Nothing was promised as certain.

Caldettas understood that Breetai could have elected to move his forces to none of these locations- opting instead to hide by jumping from random point to random point in the void. And furthermore, this could be done outside of the 1.5 kiloparsec sphere as easily as within.

Krymina, however, was determined to search.

So search they would.

And when nothing was found, as Caldettas knew it would be, Krymina would expand her search in the effort to catch Breetai before he had the opportunity to counterattack with a plan that only he knew for certain.

It was this imperative that Krymina would use to justify her hunt for the seditious warlord, but Caldettas was too versed in Krymina's ways, too familiar as to what lay at her Warrior's Core to accept that an offensive mode of defense is what drove the hunt.

Others could believe- or not- but Caldettas was bound by knowing the truth of the matter.

Breetai _would_ counterattack-.

Caldettas knew this also. The timing, means, and method were not known right now, but the legendary norghil commander was bound, like Krymina, to what was at _his_ Warrior's Core.

-And everything that Caldettas knew about Breetai, by documented history and by reputation said to him that Breetai would not be idle for long, or reserved in his response.

Yet Krymina had stripped the 7th Grand Army, a force that Caldettas had toiled endlessly over the past several seasons to augment to unparalleled might for her, of all of its heaviest units for the thin hope of landing the first blow in the next stage of this war and choosing where that battle would be fought.

Krymina had the vision and aggression to fan out across the void seeking to draw first blood in this impending confrontation with Breetai, but Caldettas was more comfortable with the math of odds and probabilities.

The fight would be _here_.

Breetai would make certain of this as surely as Krymina would drive her commanders and warriors into exhaustion for the boasting rights of taking the fight to him.

Did she not see this?

Duty sometimes also requires obeying orders with which one did not agree.

Darius had considered the mobile domicile that he and Philisto resided in to be an achievement worthy of some pride. Though he had not raised a single blister handling a tool in its construction- the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory having provided all of the effortless labor required- it was a creation of his mind down to the finest detail of the tile in the flooring and the art that ornamented the rooms.

- _Mostly_ a creation of his mind anyway.

The domicile was _inspired_ at least by the home of a provincial magistrate that his family had known on Tirol when he was a boy- and that home having long since been destroyed by neglect and exposure to the elements, Darius had no qualms in recreating it for himself.

When the requisite ugliness of subduing the alien planet's population was done and the logical place for Philisto and him to be was on the conquered world, Darius would have the domicile and its self-sustaining infrastructure and amenities moved to a plot of fertile land where a carefully selected and screened body of indigenous laborers could transform the grounds into an _estate_. Gardens, orchards, perhaps even a real Tirolian vineyard with transplanted trees and fruits would all be part of Darius's reward to self and a place to end his days as the Te'Dak Tohl busied themselves for an ultimate confrontation with The Robotech Masters that Darius himself had ensured would at best end for them with a fleeting victory.

For now though, the domicile was an exquisitely appointed, gilded cage- a plush cell in the prison that was _Artoc_ under the guard of servants of the self-elevating potentate, Krymina. Swelling with artificial benevolence and calculated generosity, she had granted the two Tirolians accommodation in a minor briefing room near to the area of the flagship in which the senior officers were quartered. A "view" had even been bestowed on them- a holographic viewscreen left up and displaying the drift of space outside of the ship was visible from the windows of the front rooms of the domicile.

Darius suspected that the choice of images was a thinly veiled reminder from Krymina of exactly where they were, despite Darius's recreation of the comforts of home, and upon whom they depended for continued survival.

Darius accepted the unspoken and constant proclamation of social order with only mild resentment. He, after all, already had his hands around the throats of Krymina and her entire caste.

 _They_ just did not know it- yet.

The Te'Dak Tohl schemed and planned- scrambling to position themselves for what they saw as their place in the future which at best was still only scraps from the table of The Robotech Masters.

Darius was content to stand by, idle in direct action but knowing with the certainty of a prophet to what exact end all of the slave race's toil would lead.

Darius knew also that his future was to be no more remarkable, his name not to endure or even be remembered as he who ended the race that ended The Masters.

But unlike the Te'Dak Tohl who were now advancing at full charge toward their end seeing only the possibility of the position that they saw for themselves, Darius governed his own fate.

There were many days between this and that however, and while Darius was aware that his lavish domicile was still only a cage- he preferred it to the location he had visited on the alien world's surface.

Even the short, pre-dawn span of time that Darius and Philisto had spent in the world's tropical region visually confirming that The Flower of Life had indeed taken root and was being systematically grown and harvested by the aliens had been enough to saturate the aged Tirolians' robes and tunics with sweat. The tacky, unwashed sensation had stayed with Darius even after they had returned to the climate controlled shuttle that had in turn transported them back to the scout vessel that had hastily ferried them to _Artoc._

A visit to the wading bath, a treatment of body powders and colognes, and a fresh change of clothing had restored Darius to vitality and ready to exalt in the uncommon occasion of a _guest_ calling.

Philisto, despite having gone through the same restorative cleansing and grooming activities as Darius in his own private suite of the domicile had managed only to recover to his normal, haggard-looking state.

The guest by comparison though made Philisto seem a specimen of vigor and health.

Unrestored from his micronized state imposed by the alien beings, the male _norghil_ sat slumped and heavy on a couch identical to those occupied by Darius and Philisto in the domicile's formal receiving salon. Even in his micronized state, the defeated creature dwarfed the two average-statured Tirolians and made the couch look as though it had been intended for children. His disproportionate and out-of-place appearance was only made more mock-worthy by his attire which consisted of what appeared to be scrap cloth lashed into a feeble approximation of a uniform tunic.

Darius suspected that this would be the state, at best, that he and Philisto would plummet to if Krymina were ever to cease to require their knowledge and skill in all things to which Zentraedi were ignorant.

In this regard at least, the Tirolians had an assurance of a secure and comfortable future.

There was something _broken_ in this pitiable creature, Fral, who Action Commander Kevtok had brought with him back to _Artoc_ like a beaten pet, and in doing so unwittingly delivered him from one form of exile into another.

Fral's defeat was beyond his state of physical decline, deeper than the grotesque evidence of extreme burns treated improperly, and could not be accounted for by the subtle but almost constant tremor of dependency that Darius had noticed days earlier when they had briefly met for the first time at the occasion of Kevtok's triumphant return.

Something _within_ had fractured and invited reassembly by Darius- in whatever form he chose.

"Action Commander Kevtok and I spoke briefly about you, Fral.", Darius said without an effort to extend pleasantries that would have been considered customary when dealing with Tirolians. These social refinements were lost on Zentraedi.

"-He said both to me and in his report to Supreme General Krymina and her staff that you were a skilled organizer of Zentraedi, and that your network of contacts and resources had been critical to destabilizing key strategic regions in preparation for invasion."

As though undergoing an interrogation, Fral responded with neither boast nor modesty, "That is correct."

"-And that you held the rank of sub-commander at one point.", Darius continued, not avoiding the trappings of debriefing, or perhaps more accurately an inquest.

"I _am_ a sub-commander-.", Fral corrected, his physical trembling worsening somewhat.

"Of course-.", Darius conceded, "But my interest- my purpose in talking to you- lies in the understanding of the aliens that you acquired during your imprisonment on their world."

"What of it?", Fral replied with disgust upon reflection, "Their way of being is dizzying and crippled with disorganization and inconsistency."

Darius sensed accumulated hostility seeking to be purged, and instead aimed to summon it.

"How so?"

Fral was quick to oblige as one who had compiled and given order to his protests by degree of the offense, "Their non-warrior caste serves itself in gluttonous and non-productive ways while commanding the warrior caste, who kneel and submit to their weakness with obedience. They have many factions based on things as meaningless as appearance, and they fail to fight to satisfactory resolution the quarrels and conflicts that they begin with one another.

-And despite all of this, they somehow have managed to _achieve_ things that we have not."

Darius fought the urge that he might not have resisted in a debate with Krymina or Caldettas to remind Fral that Zentraedi had _accomplished_ very little with the exception of conquest by their own means. Even the tools of conquest and the hierarchy of their bleak and unadorned _society_ was provided for them by design of The Robotech Masters.

Darius let it pass.

"Speaking from a background of biological study", Darius explained with care not to patronize, "Assuming an _accommodating_ environment, disorder can exist for some time without failing, Fral. Entropy is a natural progression- _order_ is an act of _will_."

"I want no part of their ways.", Fral said grimly, "That was the entire motivation behind Yeshta's faction. We did not have the resources to fight the micronians, but we as Warriors would not submit to their ways. We toiled with the single goal of escape."

Darius nodded, "-Yes, and remind me- you were a sub-commander, were you not?"

"I _am_ a sub-commander.", Fral repeated, irritation coming through more clearly in his voice.

"Yes, of course- forgive an aged mind.", Darius apologized vacantly, "But fortunately, the Te'Dak Tohl campaign has freed you in a way that your own failed efforts could not."

Fral's eyes narrowed, "We did not _fail_ , Tirolian-. We were _cheated_ at multiple points in our attempts to escape that wretched world by the micronians. They lack the spine and the strength to destroy us physically, but have the frame of mind to slowly destroy what _we are_ …. To try to corrupt us and separate us from The Warrior's Code."

Though Philisto's eyes warned against it, Darius probed the wound eagerly with concerted effort at sounding anything but eager.

"Many Warriors did surrender themselves to that seduction-. They abandoned your _Code_."

Scar tissue layered thickly over facial muscles twisted bitterly into a mask of resentment and loathing, "A lapse of strength that they are beginning to regret uniformly, I hope. They will be burned to ashes and swept away with the wind like their feeble micronian allies if Fate has any sense of justice."

"Perhaps this afflicts you so particularly, Fral, because you were a sub-commander once."

Fral erupted as though fired from the couch where he had been sitting and steadily building tension with the gradual provocation of Darius's words.

" _I AM A SUB-COMMANDER, TIROLIAN!.."_

Darius felt his face flush as a ripple of panic swept through him.

Though he felt the quake of Te'Dak Tohl guards- _fully sized_ \- entering the briefing room where the domicile resided with haste to defend not him and Philisto so much as the _services_ they had not yet performed for Supreme General Krymina, Darius was certain that the micronized norghil towering over him with fists clenched could have easily ended him before the eavesdropping guards could have hoped to tear through the domicile's structure to intervene.

Had Fral been the kind of warrior that he would have had his tirades lead others to believe, it was possible that that was the outcome that Darius's baiting would have yielded.

Fral relented though- his fists loosening to mockeries of the oldest tools of aggression from the tools themselves that they had been only moments earlier.

Having reached the verge only to shrink away from it- perhaps as he had done many times before- Fral returned and dropped heavily onto the couch, repeating his protest to incredulous ears.

"I _am_ a sub-commander, _Tirolian._ "

Visible indications of movement outside of the domicile and the briefing table to which it had been anchored told Darius that the Te'Dak Tohl guards were withdrawing from the chamber. At this moment, he was strangely grateful that his strong suspicions of being observed and monitored were indeed well-founded.

Still, Darius exercised greater caution and restraint as he continued- not only against arousing the anger of the micronized norghil past the boiling point, but also in the words he chose and how they might resonate in the ears he now knew to be listening.

"No, Fral- you're _not_ a sub-commander. _Not now_. You haven't been a sub-commander for some time, and the Te'Dak Tohl have no reason to see you restored to that station.", Darius said cautious and outwardly sympathetic in removing the last of Fral's pillars of inner-strength, "-And Fate, has only _whim-_. Though _I_ have a refined sense of justice. _I_ seek justice for my family and my people against The Robotech Masters- that is why I am here. _I_ can give you justice against the aliens. _I_ can make you a sub-commander, again, and _I_ can help you achieve justice for those Warriors who followed you. They can be Warriors again, Fral-."

Zentraedi, Darius had found, despite their limited mental faculties were not oblivious to the attempts of others to manipulate them. The more gifted were even capable of manipulation- sometimes _skilled_ manipulation themselves. Fral was not one of these, but Darius recognized that he would make easier use of Fral if the norghil felt he understood the terms of their relationship.

Whether he grasped its true nature was irrelevant, so long as he felt he did.

"Speak your mind, Tirolian.", Fral said with the weight of one making the best selection from distasteful options.

"The Te'Dak Tohl are too confident in their exploits, and too sure of their eventual governance of a species that they neither know nor understand.", Darius said, speaking in honesty to establish his case, "They have planned for every element of this campaign except for perhaps the most important one. They have a _need_ for The Flower of Life, but have no concept of how to gather or harness its power- only how to seize the world on which it's found."

"And you do?", Fral asked with justifiable skepticism.

"I know how to tap into its power.", Darius replied, "But to cultivate it, harvest it, and bring it to processing-. I do not have any of the required knowledge."

"You believe I do?", Fral asked with an unspoken admission of his ignorance in such matters in his words.

Darius drove to the point, providing the service to Fral by which he could again rejoin the purpose of Service outlined in The Warrior's Code to which he so stubbornly seemed to cling.

"No, but I believe the _micronians_ do. I have already set into motion the gathering of the necessary specialists and laborers, but to make their forced effort viable, I need _oversight_."

"And that's me?"

"You and your Warriors who are looking to perform Service again, Fral.", Darius lured enticingly, "Your Warriors are _languishing_ \- _you_ are languishing on the periphery of this war when you have the knowledge of these aliens to make it a success. The Te'Dak Tohl will _never_ allow you fight at their side or in their ranks as equals- their pride will not allow it. But _you_ and your Warriors can _prove_ your worth, _prove_ them mistaken, and with that footing demand your rightful place as _Warriors_ again in this war."

"-By overseeing micronians in forced labor?.."

"By doing effectively what the Te'Dak Tohl cannot.", Darius corrected, "Beside Kevtok and his handful of Serhot Ran, the actual experience any Te'Dak Tohl has with these aliens is measured in _hours_. You and your Warriors have the experience of _years._ You are perfectly suited to govern them-. You know their character, their slyness and cunning in a way that the Te'Dak Tohl have yet to learn. Your administration of their labor will forego the learning process the Te'Dak Tohl would have to experience and the inevitable mistakes that they would make. You would bring a high, and almost immediate level of efficiency to what under the Te'Dak Tohl would be an initial and prolonged period of _chaos_."

"And then Service, as Warriors?", Fral confirmed.

"As Warriors.", Darius assured him, "How could the Te'Dak Tohl deny you that right at that point?"

Fral was his, Darius sensed- he had no option but to be.

The reward still had to be sweetened with something gratifying in the short term, but this was easily enough surmised by the Tirolian.

"And consider the reciprocity you will be able to exact. _Revenge_ can be yours and your Warriors' until you've drank your fill of it. _They_ tried to break you and remold you to be like _them_. Show them their failure, and let _them_ understand what it is to be remade against one's will."

"You, Tirolian, sound like a creature who wants revenge himself.", Fral noted, showing perceptiveness that Darius had not suspected, "Are you certain that it's _justice_ that you want against The Masters?"

"Sometimes justice and revenge walk the same path for a distance.", Darius said without excuse, "The difference lies in whether your motivation is real change or self-gratification. As it applies here, Fral, and for my part- that matter touches my soul alone and is not your concern."

Fral seemed genuinely uninterested in Darius's motivations beyond the questioning of them.

"Then, Tirolian- let's speak of our _cooperation_ -."

"He's _masterful_.", Sub-General Caldettas said with a hint of admiration.

The executive officer sat opposite Supreme General Krymina at a table in a briefing room nearly identical to that in which the conversation that they were monitoring was taking place. Audio rendered from sensitive microphone pick-ups were filtered to remove the extraneous noises that they also captured to provide sound for the infrared image that was provided in real-time.

"It's no mystery how The Robotech Masters rose from that race.", Krymina said thoughtfully, "And even less of one as to how they've all but destroyed themselves."

Reflecting on Darius's brief conversation with the norghil, Fral, Caldettas observed, "-And he is rather _brazen_ , assuming that he's aware that we're listening."

"He knows.", Krymina said with certainty, "He knows and is comfortable with it. I think he would be more suspicious of us if we were not listening."

"Then he believes that he knows you, Liege. Believes he can _anticipate_ you. That extends beyond healthy mistrust into something more- _adversarial_. We're right to watch this one…"

Krymina was unconcerned.

"He's capable of only the treachery I allow him. As long as he is able to deliver what he promises, let him slight us to his ego's contentment. He can build whatever empire he likes in the box I allow him- but it will _always_ be inside that box."

"Everything outside of it is _ours_."

 **RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain**

 _You're in it now, Andy Johnson._

Cedric might have repeated his prophetic utterance, except he was showing every indication of grappling with maintaining consciousness.

 _Everyone_ was.

 _Everyone_ was _in it._

There was no denying at this point that despite cigarettes and strong coffee that was nearly sludge in its concentration, the _Nuggets_ (as Twig insisted on referring to them collectively as) needed _sleep._

Sleep, however was a time-consuming luxury for which there was _no time._

Reading and study devoured every minute that was not occupied by necessity by other exclusive activities.

The Nuggets read and studied after preparing for and while awaiting morning inspection.

The Nuggets read and studied on the serving line at the mess, and then while they ate.

The Nuggets read and studied while walking between instruction sessions, and while waiting for exercise stations to open during PT.

The Nuggets read and studied while _in the latrine._

-And as always, the Nuggets read and studied long after retreat had sounded over post and into the morning hours.

There were three hours remaining until revelry sounded and the Nuggets would have fifteen minutes to prepare for assembly and inspection.

At least, Andy knew without deriving joy from the knowledge, that the inspection portion would go smoothly. He had been in the small room he shared with three other Nuggets twice since the last inspection, and his rack had not been disturbed by the act of sleeping in the interval.

As he jerked his head up, not having realized that it had drooped with the stealthy assault of sleep until his forehead had touched the open book propped up on his knees, Andy suspected that the ordeal would soon be over with the deplorable act of washing out.

Sitting on the floor of the common area of the dormitory-style barracks with the other Nuggets, already six fewer than had begun the dual-track pursuit of officer/fighter pilot, it was becoming abundantly clear why Veritech pilots were the elite _few_.

Mere mortals could not hope to survive the training.

Andy strayed into a moment of darkness to wonder if he would endure into the second week.

His chance, he resolved was as good as anyone's.

They all faced the same challenge.

Three hours before the daily cycle began again, and still nearly three hundred pages from four different subject areas to commit to memory.

Signs of physical exhaustion such as nodding off during classroom instruction meant a Yank baseball to the chest.

Failure to meet academic standards meant dismissal from the program.

Several slumped forms started slightly as Cattermole slammed a textbook onto the polished floor without regard for marking the page and place where he had stopped pretending to read.

"- _Cancer call_.", he said loudly to penetrate the haze of waking slumber that fogged all around him, "Who wants to burn one?"

Andy laid his own book down, open face to the floor to preserve his place in a chapter that he was having difficulty remembering. He was at least committed to going through the motions until they carted him away a drooling vegetable.

Cedric, sitting beside him did not respond at all, but continued to stare blankly at his own open book without registering what was before him.

As they had done for one another many times on the football or rugby field, Andy gave Cedric a solid shove to bring him back into focus.

Whether he knew what he was acknowledging or not, Cedric's head bobbed to show he was in on the play.

"Pamela?", Andy asked as he and Cedric competed to reach their feet first with similar cracking and popping of every stiff joint involved in the process.

Pamela Dunn, whose forehead was resting on her crooked, right knee in a contortionist's take on a power nap, grunted, "I'll skip the fag and go right to the cancer if it doesn't take any effort-."

"Next time then.", Andy said, wondering how many next times they had left before being rotated back to a less demanding MOS pursuit.

The early morning air was chilly and bit slightly at the skin, waking the three pilot candidates with its briskness.

The rejuvenating qualities of the temperature change were short-lived though, and all three young men were soon at the activity for which they had come outside.

As the still air filled with cigarette smoke, Cattermole said whimsically, "-Well, infantry training shouldn't be so bad-. We'll get to see old Kingsley again, won't we?"

"If the infantry would have us.", Cedric muttered bitterly, "Face it- we're headed to cook's school."

Cattermole rolled his head side-to-side pondering the possibility and then said, "Not how I envisioned killing, but bugger it-."

"Well, I'm not done yet.", Johnson said, mustering some defiance, "I'm not tapping out to some God-awful, _well you gave it your best-_ speech."

"What was the last thing you read?", Cedric asked.

"What?"

"You were reading like two minutes ago-.", Cedric elaborated, " _What were you reading?_ "

Despair gripped Andy tightly about the throat as he realized he honestly could not remember."

" _Ahhhhhh…"_ , Cedric gloated.

"Piss off, Cedric.", Andy growled, still working at remembering.

"So, I suppose I can't just ask you for the short version, then eh, Andy?"

"How do you still have the energy to be a prick?", Andy asked, drawing on his cigarette, "Can you tell me that?"

"Selective application of my remaining strength, I guess.", Cedric answered, the energy already dropping off from his voice again.

"- _Oh, you miserable cunts-._ "

Collins and Johnson both looked to Cattermole for an explanation of the unwarranted outburst.

"Come again?", Cedric asked.

Cattermole shook his head, saying, "We're all a lot of dense, miserable cunts-."

"Alright, we've established that.", Andy said, "Any particular facet of our _miserable cuntnes_ that you wish to expand on?"

Cattermole said with the self-loathing of one only now grasping the obvious, "We're _never_ going to be able to cover all of the reading we're given-."

Cedric snorted, "That was inspiring- _thanks._ "

Cattermole's meaning clicked with Johnson, spurring his own self-loathing for not seeing.

"No, Cedric- he means we can't do it if we're all going at it _alone_. We've got to break it down a little. _Divide and conquer_ , right?-."

"I don't think that's what that means-.", Cedric pointed out.

"-Still-.", Andy continued, "Like when my Da's company puts up a block of flats-. You've got special teams for each trade- right? It'd be a bloody hole in the ground forever if everyone went at the same thing at once."

"Smart bloke, your da'.", Cedric conceded.

"What's this about your father?", Cattermole asked with mild and unveiled indignation, "I seem to remember _me_ bringing it up. –Still, you're smarter than I gave you credit for."

"Thanks, _I think_..."

"I didn't set the bar that high-."

"We've got to break it down into teams.", Johnson continued, ignoring the last comment, "Each team brushes up on something and then briefs it out for everyone else."

Collins' mind was turning now and the path- the _only_ path- was becoming clear.

"Well, I wish we would have thought of this five hours ago-."

Cattermole was immediately defensive of his ownership of the epiphany, "What's this _we_?"

"Get bent, Aunt Moggie- it's _everyone's_ now.", Cedric said sounding every bit the football team captain that Andy had played under what seemed centuries ago now, "Let's get back in there and start to work it out now. Won't get us a wink of sleep tonight, but if we don't gruel first, we might make it through tomorrow and get some sleep to boot."

Andy raised his cigarette to his lips, saying, "We really should smoke more often, the three of us."

"Yes", agreed Cattermole, "You inspire me to be less like you-. _Miserable cunts…_ "

 **Brasilia**

"Sri, my friend, I don't think these boys mean to move on anytime soon.", Whilite said raising a pair of field glasses up to his eyes.

With the aid of the image intensification system built into the compact, ruggedized binoculars, Whilite was able to see clearly in green hues details that the dark had concealed from his naked eyes.

From he and Naib Subedar Singh's observation position atop a fire and weather gutted office mid-rise, the two officers could see the ongoing cycle that had continued all throughout the day and again into darkness, late night, and now early morning.

As though part of a conveyer belt with invisible linkages, Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pods continued to arrive from the north and vanish below the darkened city skyline in the area where Brasilia's airport still stood semi-intact and continued apparently to service new traffic.

Earlier in the day, there had been a substantial Gnerl presence in the sky, flaying guard for the transports and then lingering for a short while in the skies over the city like birds of prey scouring the world below. When none of the indigenous air forces had contested them, and with nothing moving overland that had captured or held their attention- the concentration of Gnerls lingering over Brasilia had dwindled significantly.

Like most if not all fighter pilots, the Zentraedi variety appeared also to be easily bored and quick to seek out action if none presented itself.

"They do not.", Singh agreed to Whilite's comment, "But that could play to our advantage when the time is right."

"The sooner the better.", Whilite said, not hearing the eagerness he felt to cut into the enemy conveyed in his voice.

 _Payback_ was in and of itself not a good operational objective, but it was a great motivator.

An axle squealed from the rubble-strewn street below, protesting shrilly having to bear a heavy load in a damaged state.

Whilite's pulse raced for a moment and then dropped back to a resting rate as he reassured himself with the experience of the day that if the Zentraedi were even aware of human activity in Brasilia, they were not concerned. The lieutenant hoped that it would be an extremely painful mistake for them.

On the street below, an abandoned, flatbed truck trailer, damaged noticeably by fire, and riding on the steel rims of its ruined tires was being towed by two of Singh's Gurkha Riflemen in their Cyclone Battloids.

The two power armor clad men bore the front hitching platform of the trailer on their shoulders and applied their mechanically augmented strength against a crossbeam that had been welded into place for the purpose. With crates and bundles lasted to the long flatbed, the sight was bizarre at first glance but strangely reminiscent of how one might picture medieval peasants trundling their goods to market by open cart.

In some ways, it was not a completely inaccurate analogy- as for the time being, the Earth had been bludgeoned back to an earlier time of less technological sophistication.

Whilite accepted the analogy however, as medieval times were far more savage and accepting of bloody deeds like those that he, the Rangers and Gurkhas were looking forward to committing.

Not yet though.

Rangers were not thugs given to surrendering to their first whims of violence.

Rangers were expertly trained, supremely resourceful, and highly disciplined soldiers who _planned and prepared_ before acting on their whims of violence.

This latest transfer of equipment and supplies from Homestead, one of an impressive half dozen this day, was evidence that preparedness was a core value adhered to by both Ranger and Gurkha alike.

Receiving only a small portion of the stockpile of supplies from the shattered and now lifeless Homestead Base was Echo Company's adopted lair- the 511-Sul Station of the Brasilia Metro mass transit system.

On the "new" subway line that had begun construction prior to The Robotech War, 511-Sul Station had never reached a state of completion like the other intended points of access on the line.

There was the form and structural elements of a station connected partially or completely by the shells of tunnels, but these were arrested steps of construction that had been superseded by greater human needs for the skills required to create them and left to slumber until the time came around when that attention could again be dedicated their way.

For now though, it was a den and means of movement that the Rangers could have sworn had been dug out of the earth for their specific purpose- had the real purpose of the subway line not already been clearly defined. Still, the tunnels and stations on both the existing subway lines and on those under construction had been areas of conflict and contention between the malcontent Zentraedi and the rotating forces of Homestead Base since Brasilia had descended into chaos some three months before.

The malcontents, never quite comfortable with the thought of dwelling or moving exclusively below the streets had nonetheless established niches of refuge and resupply that RDF and ASC forces had been obliged to root out and destroy so the same conveniences could be established again by the malcontents in other areas of the city.

The struggle had not been unending though. When secured, regular probes and patrols of captured subway tunnels and stations by the combined Terran forces had managed to keep them malcontent-free with only periodic and relatively minor skirmishes as the Zentraedi had chosen to move their stores to the basements of the abundant abandoned buildings rather than engage in the close-quarters combat that their conditioning and experience made them ill-suited for to preserve the subways as their own. It left the diminished but still serviceable network of transit lines and all of the supporting infrastructure for the poor remnants of Homestead's garrison, whose training made the dank labyrinth of concrete and steel a subterranean world of opportunity.

With the proper preparation of course.

The stockpiling of the supplies needed to sustain an isolated combat unit the size of Echo Company and the surviving Gurkhas was a major step in that direction. Once that step was completed, then the work for which Ranger and Gurkha alike had come to Brasilia for originally would resume- just under different terms.

Singh's Gurkhas in their Cyclone power armor hauled the flatbed trailer the last thirty meters on its grating and squealing axles to the same point that it had been drawn to a half dozen times already that day before setting the load down and immediately going into "unload mode". The reduced, composite squad from 3rd Platoon that Whilite had hand-selected nearly a day and a half before to participate in the probe of Brasilia rushed out to participate again in the moving of the supplies that would sustain them from their conveyance to their underground cache like small mammals of the forest storing food for winter.

Whilite and Singh's soldiers were bearing up, benefitting on the Rangers' side at least from brief opportunities to rest as supplies were shuttled from Homestead to the improvised FOB only several kilometers distant. There were moments to rest, but the fatigue was beginning to show.

With no end in sight to the detail however, Whilite knew that the unit would just have to muscle through- and was confident that they would. Supplies would be trundled in until every available space was over-packed or Zentraedi discovery precluded their gathering. And once the immediate spaces of the FOB were filled, then secondary and emergency caches would be established elsewhere.

Only the promise that an entire company would soon be in the AO allowed Whilite to realistically expect that the task could be accomplished in an acceptable timeframe.

"Man, Sri-.", Whilite commented as the unloading of the flatbed went immediately into full swing and the labors of a pair of Rangers to move a single storage crate were diminished in comparison by the lifting and movement of a pallet by a single Gurkha in power armor, "-A dozen more guys in those things would make this go a lot quicker."

Singh was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then replied, "A request I can't help you with, I'm afraid. A dozen more Cyclone riders would benefit us manifold in the days to come I think. A week ago, I could have offered you a company of them-."

The glaringly obvious struck Whilite at a near physical level.

"You know, Sri- Captain Nguyen could offer _you_ a company _today_ -. Minus the training, of course…"

Singh's expression turned from doubtful to speculative in the time it took him to turn his head to fully face Whilite.

"We haven't the facilities for the formal Cyclone training regime, you know."

"School's overrated.", Whilite replied, "I've always been a big believer in _on-the-job-training._ "

"I'm not much in the way of an experienced instructor-.", Singh stipulated.

"Great", Whilite countered, "I'm a consistently lousy student- ask my high school French teachers… We're a natural pair."

Singh returned to thought a moment longer.

"It _could_ work."

"That it could.", Whilite agreed.

There was a soft crackle in the earpiece of Whilite's radio headset as a mike went live on the same tactical frequency, and as the channel had been reserved for command communications, there was little doubt in Whilite's mind as whose voice he would hear.

The lieutenant was not disappointed as Captain Nguyen's voice followed a moment later.

"Echo Three, Echo Actual- do you copy?"

"Echo Three here.", Whilite replied, adjusting the mike stem before his mouth, "Five by five, Actual."

"Three, Actual. SitRep?"

"Actual, Three. FOB identified and fortifying. –Found a good deal on real estate. It's cozy and well situated with room for a family to grow. Bit of a _fix `er upper_ though."

Whilite could hear Nguyen's grin of amusement through his words, "That's good, Three- we've got a growing family. Send your position and we'll come home."

"Happy to hear it, Actual. Stand by to receive."

" **Oasis"- ASC Durango Base,**

 **Mexico**

"-Jack, this is _really_ starting to fuck with my buzz-.", Dalton said, sounding understandably like he could have been happier anywhere but where he was.

"We're not drinking, Freddy.", Winters replied finding the balance of his pistol to keep the muzzle squarely between Mathias's eyes.

"-I know-. It's fucking with a buzz _I don't even have yet_ , Jack- _and that's just weird_."

There was a series of rapid, metallic _clicks_ as the half dozen pilots of Mathias's squadron who had accompanied him on whatever business had brought them to cross paths with the RDF pilots drew, leveled, and readied their side arms- interlaced with the sound of Vincenz and Cohen doing the same. Exposed gun metal glinted in the naked LED lighting as all other movement in the mess tent ceased.

"You remember me!", Mathias chuckled, unperturbed by the possibility of a magnum facial, "-I guess that means we bonded _or something_ …"

The trigger beneath Winters finger felt especially light and easy to pull as he said, "You and me, and the devil makes three, Mathias. You here to settle up?- because I can help you with that _this very instant_."

Duggan, on his feet but unarmed as was Vought by virtue of having lost their side arms to sea water emersion was nonetheless ready to participate in whatever came next.

"You know this Yank, Jack?"

"We've met.", Winters replied as the rush of impulse began to subside and the reality of why Mathias should seem so unconcerned began to penetrate. In the span of the confrontation, what appeared to be the bulk of Mathias's squadron had joined their CO inside of the mess and had followed in the drawing and pointing of their weapons.

"-He's a less than model host, let's say."

Winters with considerable effort returned the hammer of his revolver forward and lowered the chromed length of steel to his side, holstering it.

On both sides, others who had drawn their weapons did the same.

It had been silently agreed that there would be no blood-letting – for now.

"Well, in all honesty, you're a shitty guest, Winters.", Mathias replied, dots of fresh sweat unrelated to the heat appearing on his face, "You blew up half of my base on your way out the door. Not quite the _gung ho_ spirit that gets you invited back."

"Bill me.", Winters said flatly, "-And if you haven't noticed, _I am_ back- sorry to say… By the way, that wasn't you who parked those VW Bugs with wings on the same tarmac as my fighter plane, was it?"

"Oh, you mean those sagging relics that are leaking oil all over my base?..", Mathias fired back.

Winters was grateful that Lyle had not joined them.

There would have been violence at this point.

"Valkyries don't _leak oil_.", Winters replied, "They're just marking their territory."

"Still quick with a comeback, Winters- I'll give you that.", Mathias acknowledged, "Gotten any better at sticking around for the fight?"

"We've been at it for three days, you uppity little shit.", Duggan joined in, right fist still clenched in case he was given occasion to use it.

"And you've done a bang-up job so far-.", Mathias replied, "-It's gratifying to see that all of those resources that went to _planetary defense_ didn't go to waste. –But hey, what do I know? I'm just down here in the back waters slugging it out like I always have."

Winters was slowly recognizing faces, though not names, of Mathias's pilots from months before with the exception of several.

"Where's your XO?"

Mathias shook his head with sincere regret, "Billy didn't make it, I'm afraid. One of those sad cases of someone who sacrificed all on Day One."

"Sad.", agreed Winters, "Should have been you."

Mathias chuckled again, unaffected other than by amusement, "Well, the war is young, isn't it?- And I mean, we all have it coming eventually, don't we? Even you, Winters."

"Then I'll save you a seat in Hell?"

"It's a date.", Mathias said.

The ASC-AF squadron commander glanced around at his pilots, and then at the smaller RDF representation.

"Well, fellas- maybe we ought to try the chow somewhere else. This place will serve anyone."

The Crimson Cavaliers began to file out of the mess tent with parting, hateful glances made over the shoulders of each as they exited the tent with Mathias taking up the rear of the procession.

"See you out there, Winters. Be sure to watch your six."

As the flimsy plastic door to the tent swung closed behind the Southern Cross pilots, the air in the tent began to move again as all- those involved in the confrontation as well as those who had simply been by-standers resumed the act of breathing.

"Congratulations, Jack.", Vought groused, breaking the silence that had hung for seconds and had lingered too long to be comfortable, "You found a way to make my day _worse_ than it already was. I think I just pissed myself through my goddamn pores…"

"He's still an asshole.", Dalton said, referring clearly to Mathias, "-At least the war hasn't changed him."

"Isn't consistency a virtue, Freddy?", Winters asked, taking a seat on the same table bench where he'd been sitting previously, though this time out of the faint feeling that naturally followed a close scrape as they had just had.

"So are good judgment and self-control.", Cohen said with his eyes locked on the tent door as though expecting the Crimson Cavaliers to come bursting in again.

"Well, we're all fucked then, aren't we?", Dalton observed, "- _I really didn't like that._ "

Duggan, looking completely excluded inserted himself into the conversations of those around him who were in the know.

"So, is someone going to let me in on what just happened, or should we do this _twenty questions_ style?"

Winters removed his beaten leather wheel cap to find his hair slick with sweat.

"Sure, what are you doing for the next two hours?"

"Before we dive into history", Vincenz cut in, "I'd like to take a moment on the _here and now_. –I didn't like that whole thing about watching our sixes."

"Like the man said, Vice- we've all got it coming eventually, don't we?", Winters mused darkly.

"One usually doesn't have to worry about it coming from your own side though.", Vincenz countered, "I mean, that _was_ a pretty clear threat- or did I just hear Mathias wrong?"

"No, you didn't.", Dalton affirmed, "But it doesn't change anything really-. We watch our sixes regardless, don't we?"

"But it does change things.", Winters said heavily, "It does, and we can't have it that way."

Dalton looked genuinely confused, "What are you saying, Jack?"

"What needs to be said.", Winters replied, "We hate the bastards, and they hate us-. But we can't have it out with the bloody Zentraedi and settle vendettas at the same time. –We just can't."

Vincenz paled.

" _Aw, shit-._ Jack's talking like a grown-up. It _is_ the End of Days…"

"Any thoughts on how to achieve this _Kumbaya_ moment of reconciliation, Jack?", Dalton asked.

Winters shook his head, "Not a clue-. But I need to figure it out."

"And we just forgive and forget what he did to Wang?", Vought asked, invoking the martyr whose name was still not easily spoken in the squadron.

"No", Winters said, "-But we put it behind us. Or put it aside for now. Preacher would say that it's the right thing to do, or that Wang would have wanted it that way."

"Well, we left our conscience back with the rest of the squadron.", Cohen said, observing Wayne's absence from the company of pilots.

"Maybe you should have just shot the fucker.", Duggan suggested, referring back to Mathias, "-Gotten all of the bad blood out in one scrap-."

"Yeah", conceded Winters, "-Maybe I should have just shot the fucker."

 **Topia, Mexico**

The town of Topia had stood in one form or another stretching back far beyond living memory of any of its inhabitants, farther back than the national memory of Mexico, to its establishment sometime during the period of Spanish rule over the region.

Like many towns and settlements in many mountain chains around the globe, Topia had most likely taken root originally as it presented a waypoint between nowhere and nowhere along a poorly maintained road winding its way through rugged and plunging canyons and passes. It had been founded to accommodate travelers passing through, and lived because some in the course of their travels had decided to establish roots.

Common to settlements of its type in remote areas of the world, Topia had little in the way of modern infrastructure and occupied a geographical footprint that a grown man could walk north to south in under an hour and east to west at its broadest point in a quarter of that.

Also, like many remote settlements of the world, it had boasting rights to claim that it had been virtually unchanged by Earth's surge in technological evolution driven by Robotechnology, and its near collapse following The Zentraedi Holocaust.

Topia's exclusion from the benefits and detriments of the Earth joining the galactic community was nearing its end this night however. The same geographical qualities that had made it a logical place for a settlement supporting the movement of travelers made it also a site of strategic importance in the Sierra Madre chain.

Colonel Marco Antonio Mejia of the 94th Composite Armored Regiment had been briefed hastily by his superior, General Vargas, on the criticality of his unit's assignment. Though Mejia had grown up much farther north and east- far away from the mountains- his formal military training made it clear beyond the readily apparent as to why paths through the Sierra Madre were of significance. Beyond that, Mejia did have family history in the area. _Tio Rafael_ , his father's brother, had made something of a name for himself in this region in a less than legal occupation during the times before Robotechnology.

Mejia understood clearly how even in a time of advanced technologies and sophisticated war machines, that simple topography could be the determining factor in military victory or defeat in a region.

Mejia also understood why Vargas had chosen Topia as the bottleneck into which to insert the cork of the 94th Composite Armored Regiment. Topia stood flush against a "hill" to its northeast with no other name of significance than "1405", that indicated its peak height above sea level. Along Hill 1405's east face, a road that was paved to two lanes in some stretches but that was scarcely more than a dirt path and little more than the width of a pick-up truck clung and wound with the contours of the steep mountainside. Of particular interest was what had aptly come to be known by the staff as "The Angle" where the road switched back and forth on itself in extreme turns no less than four times inside of a footprint of 500 square meters.

It was a location where a minimal few could effectively stop and hold back a force many times its own size, and was the reason for which Mejia and the 94th found themselves hurried to garrison Topia.

As Mejia stood atop his command vehicle in an opening that passed as a "plaza" in the relative terms of Topia, he could not see The Angle, but could still visualize where the road came around the southern end of Hill 1405 to enter Topia from the east. It was along this road to almost within sight of The Angle that Mejia had placed at bends and areas where cover presented itself two companies of his MB-1A Heavy Battloids.

Ill-suited for facing Zentraedi mecha in on an open battlefield, and with armament that relegated them to little more than the role of mechanized infantry defending the flanks of more substantial mecha from infantry-level threats, the MB-1A in terms of the mountain pass that wound its way into Topia was ideal. Each mecha at just under six meters in height was small enough to take advantage of the cover provided by the irregular mountain terrain, while carrying sufficient firepower to _slow_ the advance of Zentraedi light mecha through the valley.

General Vargas had likened Topia to Thermopolis- implying the position was defensible by few from many, while at the same time ignoring the more dire connotations of the analogies for the defenders.

In the first element, Mejia was in total agreement with his superior.

And should the Zentraedi ever reach the mouth of the pass opening into Topia, they would find themselves facing down 80 of the 94th Composite Armored Regiment's centerpieces- the VHT-1 Veritech Hover Tank.

Only outwardly comparable to the nimble transformable fighter that first carried the name "Veritech" by the fact that the VHT-1 could change physical forms depending on the requirements of combat- the heavily armored mecha was quietly rumored to be more closely related to its RDF Valkyrie and REF Alpha cousins by technologies that may or may not have been _borrowed_.

The possibility that RDF "intellectual property" may have been adopted and modified to bring the VHT-1s to fully operational status was not cause for Col Mejia to lose sleep. For over a year the hardware portion of the VHT-1s had been in finalized form awaiting refinement of the sophisticated software required to make a transformable, multi-form, combat platform viable.

In guarded secrecy, "Hover Tankers" had trained rigorously in simulation in anticipation of technical blockages being cleared, and of one day being able to button-up in an actual VHT to conduct true field exercises.

And it had happened- though the breaking-in period of the VHT had been far shorter than even the sourest pessimist could have predicted.

The hover tankers under Mejia's command all had substantial mecha experience, some even going back so far as service in the RDF through the days of The First Robotech War, and all had stood up under the pressures of combat. Introducing a new machine into the equation of combat however, with such limited field testing though was ill-advised by any calculation.

At the same time though and as was the present circumstance, baptism by fire was sometimes the only option.

Mejia had more reasons for confidence than for concern though.

The terrain and positioning of his men were advantageous to him, and the defense of the mountain pass was layered with air support and indirect artillery support to supplement the 94th CAR.

Even the substantial presence of the combat untested VHTs was offset by the standard assortment of conventional, anti-mecha fighting vehicles and even two token RDF platoons apiece of Gen-1 Gladiators and Excalibur Destroids.

Still, with extreme hills towering to all sides of Topia and the only plausible means of withdrawal being through a bottleneck pass to the south over a road identical in every meaningful way to the one that Mejia looked to use tactically against the Zentraedi-.

Mejia couldn't help but think in brief moments of darkness that General Vargas's comparison of Topia to Thermopolis might be more appropriate than he was outwardly willing to admit.

"Colonel, sir-."

Mejia looked down to where Martinez from his operational staff leaned out of the open rear hatch of the converted APC.

"Sir, OP Three has visual contact with the enemy. They're coming, sir."

"Time to get to work then.", Mejia replied, pausing to take in one last breath of the night air and to feel a last moment of serenity that the rustic surroundings had to offer.

It would change all too soon.

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt had been involved in numerous exercises since his Awakening, and though none were quite the same as this they had provided him with a sense of where danger lay- even when it could not be seen. This limited experience too was built atop intuition that he could not as easily explain.

It had just always been there since the moment his eyes had fluttered open and his ears taken in the sounds of his own sputtering and gagging in the effort to expel stasis fluid from his lungs.

In the same way he had known words spoken to him and how to speak back, along with the multitude of things and symbols he had recognized immediately upon Awakening- this sense for impending peril had been with him.

Though the routine of unit movement and the sudden sense that something was not right came to Tahlt as it had in exercise, this was not _exactly_ the same. There was a biting edge to this sensation now, and it did not require great perception to understand why.

The path, set flush and without margin between the steeply ascending wall of these heavily jungled mountains and the plummeting drop to the chasm floor far below was adequate to support the weight of his Regult and the others of his platoon- but it was a slender trail that necessitated traveling in column as it was and had been too narrow for one Regult to even pass another for some distance now. As the trail cut sharply right and west in toward a pocket formed in the natural contours of the mountain, Tahlt was certain enough that this would be the place where danger would spring itself that his Warrior's Core urged him to halt the advance.

This, his conditioning also told him, was not _his_ decision to make.

"Lieutenant Pizkhra, Lord-.", Tahlt called by secure frequency a considerable distance to the rear to where his Te'Dak Tohl superior and the vastly greater firepower of his Glaug Officer's Pod were nestled into the column. Too far to the rear to assist in any contact made on the column's point, but able to _direct_ action.

"-Lord, I am concerned about the trail immediately ahead. I request permission to halt the column while I take a reduced squad forward to clear the path."

Tahlt's response was immediate- almost without pause for thought.

"Negative- the column will _not_ halt. You are to detach a reduced squad and advance ahead of the column, but our progress is not to slow. We are falling behind on the advance."

"Understood, Lord.", Tahlt acknowledged.

And he _did_ understand- far better than the platoon leader might have suspected.

-But beyond the conditioning that Tahlt had Awakened with, he had acquired the sense not to speak such thoughts and suspicions _openly_.

The days following his Awakening had been an overwhelming time for Tahlt, as it had been for the thousands who had emerged from stasis in the span of several days bracketing him before and after. There was the grappling with knowledge and skills that they had no memory of acquiring, but of the greatest struggles was forming units under their Te'Dak Tohl superiors.

Pizkhra had been there from almost the onset of consciousness, Tahlt remembered, and had performed his functions as unit leader as Tahlt had known automatically to expect.

-But there was something about Pizkhra's conduct that went beyond the understood segregation of officer-grade and the sub-officer and warrior grades.

He rarely performed inspections himself, and had only three times to Tahlt's memory- normally leaving the duty to his sub-officers. And for sub-officer and warrior grade alike, he identified them only by _grade_ and _never_ name.

There was also the way that Pizkhra referred to the warriors of the unit only as _regulars_ \- and always with a hint of something in his tone that Tahlt had initially lacked the experience to identify, but now felt confident in calling it _contempt_.

Pizkhra had never, over the expansive period of training and exercise that the 7th Grand Army had exposed its "regulars" to, executed his command in such a way as to intentionally imperil his subordinates whose names he knew perhaps one in six. There was no sense either however that he had pride in their maturation as Warriors, or that he saw the polished result of training as something worth guarding.

There had been _accidents_ and losses in training, particularly in live fire exercises that with the benefit of hindsight could have been avoided with only the most minimal care in orders given. Consistently though, Pizkhra had always chosen the quickest route to accomplishing the objective with the responsibility for his warriors' individual safety being their own. All, Tahlt also had noticed quickly, while Pizkhra led from as far in the rear as he could while still claiming _leadership._

This was not uncommon, Tahlt had discovered in talking to other Warriors as warriors did. Some, whose Te'Dak Tohl officers had seen fit to explain had imparted the justification that the _regulars_ needed exposure to Fate's unpredictable whim as _part_ of _seasoning_. Some explained this more benignly than a number of known others who more often used the more abrasive term _norghil_ in referring to their warriors.

Some Te'Dak Tohl officers left it to their _regulars_ to comprehend themselves- putting those who questioned command practice into the most immediate danger regularly until even the thought of questioning had ceased, or Fate had claimed the warrior.

Pizkhra was a less extreme model in that category.

Tahlt had not ascended to the position of ranking sub-lieutenant by virtue of his Warrior's skills alone though. There had been a number who had occupied the position before him who had not mastered the ability to govern thought and to keep it from becoming spoken words.

Tahlt thought often the same things his predecessors had spoken to their lieutenant, but Tahlt gave these thoughts voice seldom and only in the company of Warriors whom he knew had mastered the same control.

Whether his words had somehow found their way to the Te'Dak Tohl lieutenant, or whether Pizkhra was demonstrating his normal level of concern for his subordinates- Tahlt and his Warriors were _here_ \- as was the enemy he knew.

 _They_ were just as yet unseen.

Lieutenant Pizkhra was at least providing a measure of consistency.

With only a single Light Artillery Regult ahead of him in column, and the path being traveled too narrow to trade positions, the choice of other Warriors to join him in advancing was simple for Tahlt.

"Clote, Almit, and Geha- increase pace to quick advance and close your intervals to ten paces. –Be alert-. There _are_ micronians here-."

The weathered outcropping of rock on the southwest slope of Hill 1121with its central depression that formed a "cup" deep enough to shelter in was an ideal location for an observation post- and one that Lieutenant Saenz of the 27th ASC Mountain Regiment could not have surpassed without custom-ordering it. To his northwest, he had a nearly unobstructed view of a fourteen kilometer stretch of the Topia Road (a name given for lack of anything "official") winding north along the western edge of valley, while to the southwest there was an equally unhindered view of the road's entry into Topia itself.

He and his platoon spread out over a kilometer and a half and three other such OPs along the slope and ridge of Hill 1121 had been monitoring the progress of the Zentraedi probe for nearly a half hour through a series of potential kill boxes. An attack could have been initiated at any time, but by wise order of the tactical commander, Colonel Mejia, Saenz was obliged to _not_ "pull the trigger" until there was a level of certainty about the enemy and the nature of his advance.

Was this simply a probe, exploring the pass as a means to move a more massive force south through the cover of the mountains in order to strike at Durango from its left flank- or was it the vanguard of a force already in motion?

Intelligence from other units and from civilians questioned about alien movements that they had observed spoke of Zentraedi numbering somewhere between several companies' strength up to two regiments moving through the extreme hills and valleys of the central and southern Sierra Madre.

Without the benefit of satellite surveillance that had been lost with the initial planetary assault by the Zentraedi and before it had ever been put to its intended use, or the dedication of RDF JSTARS aircraft to provide an accurate assessment of activity within the chain, there was no telling except for trained observers putting eyes on target.

The satellites had been an unfortunate, but in terms of the conflict an _understandable_ loss of capability. Why the RDF would not commit just one JSTARS to such a critical intelligence activity was not as easily understood.

As Saenz's first sergeant, Olguin, had observed bitterly, _why risk an expensive airplane and thirty RDF lives for something that two hundred ASC and a thousand Mexican civilians can do without cost?_

Indignation aside, Saenz could not help but bring himself to strongly disagree with his sergeant. The Zentraedi in their travels south through the mountains had not _stopped_ to attack the sparse and relatively small pockets of civilian population that lay in their path- but they had done an admirable job of destroying and killing as they went.

Still, the blame was not completely shouldered by the RDF and the latest chapter in its history of indifference to the non-UE population of the world-.

Under the conditions of Joint Operational Initiative Gemini, and the implications of that pact that could not have been known at the time of its signing- General Leonard actually had theater-level command of operations, and by extent was no less guilty than the RDF for the lack JSTARS in establishing the ground situation in the Sierra Madre.

So Saenz rationalized that Leonard had to have both faith in his own men in the region to make an accurate report, and also had other plans requiring those RDF assets.

Regardless, Lt Saenz was here to perform a job- and he was determined to do so.

Much of the Zentraedi unit had passed through the first four into the fifth kill box without being aware that they had done so. By composition it appeared to be a medium assault platoon that even without the attachment of a Scout/Recon Pod was ideally suited for probing operations and able to skirmish with enemy mecha it might meet along the way.

The problem, and one that the alien commander had no way of knowing, was that Colonel Mejia had no intent of _skirmishing_ with his mecha if he could avoid it.

"They smell something, Lieutenant-.", Olguin noted as both he and Saenz peered through night vision binoculars across the valley at the Topia Road and the Zentraedi moving along it, "They're suspicious of The Angle…"

Saenz saw exactly what Olguin was speaking of and had been thinking the same thing as he had said it. Where the road rounded a corner to nearly double back on itself before coming around with the shape of the mountain to continue southward- a spot that had almost instantaneously taken on the name of "The Angle"- a group of four Battle Pods including a Light Artillery Pod on point had doubled its speed to move through the pinch in advance of their comrades. They were offering themselves up to trip an ambush they suspected of lying in wait.

 _Wise_ , Saenz granted the platoon commander, not considering that the idea had come from lower in the chain of command- _but futile_.

Colonel Mejia and General Vargas above him had other ideas of how to initiate contact with the enemy, and unlike with the JSTARS, the RDF had willingly done its part to oblige.

"Rainmaker, Shaman One-.", Saenz said into his radio that was set to the encrypted command frequency, " Fire mission… Target Kill Box Five for saturation fire. Bring the rain- bring it _hard…_ "

"Roger that, Shaman One- keep your head down, here comes the storm…"

Fire directors were instant messaging encrypted orders to the batteries of the 71st Heavy Artillery as the commander stepped out the side door of the modified APC command vehicle for a glimpse of his unit's first action in this war.

Spread out along a north-to-south running ridge whose winning attribute had been enough level or near-level surfaces to host thirty-six 155mm artillery pieces, the elevation and direction of the pieces was being adjusted ever so slightly to match the pre-determined aim for the desired target area a solid twenty kilometers west. This position allowed the firebase the ability to cover any of a half dozen passes and valleys in which observer teams were positioned to monitor for enemy movement. This was just the first call for indirect fire support in what could be reasonably assumed to be many.

As Battery 3, the nearest by chance to the north began to fire and reload in quick succession, bleaching the darkness of night with long tongues of flame from the end of artillery piece muzzles and shocking the eardrums of all with their heavy report- a distinguishable and more powerful tremor could be felt to shake the air. Between the boom of 155mm pieces, there was a roar of the passage of larger, heavier shells from further to the east that shook the ridge win their Doppler-warbling passage overhead.

These were the 16-ingh projectiles thrown by the RDF firebase and its six MAC-II Destroids from ten kilometers east of 71st Artillery. It had been a great feat of transportation to move the mechanical dinosaurs with their immense weight and four imposing main guns by CT-4 transport into the rugged terrain that would have otherwise been impassible to the lumbering, bipedal machines.

As the air displaced by the first passing salvo stabilized again, the 71st's commander understood in a very real way that the required effort was about to pay off.

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt was at the tightest point of the sharp bend in the mountainside path turning south when the ground beneath his Regult's broad feet began to tremble noticeably and with a rapidly increasing violence.

The only sensation he could compare it to was a large number of Regults on a full-charge advance where there was the perpetual feeling that the ground would liquefy beneath him and swallow both he and his mecha whole. The mountain was bucking now, far beyond that, and as large stones and clumps of plants carrying in their roots balls of dislodged earth tumbled down the slope all around Tahlt and his squad- there could be no mistake that this was _not_ a natural event.

Sounds of panic and chaos from the platoon with whom Tahlt had lost visual contact to the fold in the mountain that now surrounded him on three sides was punctuated with the unmistakable squeal of communications systems being destroyed and screams being abruptly cut off.

The danger being behind, Tahlt was two paces into the mad charge to flee that he only had to join rather than order when the path before him and beneath Clote's Light Artillery Regult vanished into a great cloud of rising dirt and rock and sloughed away into the valley below.

Tahlt felt the left foot of his own Regult continue to descend well below where it should have found purchase on solid earth again and he braced as the world before him began to tumble through the aspect of his viewscreen.

Sergeant Olguin and Lieutenant Saenz clung to the edge of the depression in which they were covering as they dared to peer over the edge.

As the mountains continued to shake as though they would collapse into one another, the detached squad of Regults that had advanced forward of the rest of their platoon into the hairpin of The Angle could be seen vanishing into the cascade of rock and earth that had been the road beneath them moments earlier on their way to the valley floor hundreds of meters below.

As punishment being received went, these Zentraedi were amongst the _lucky ones._

Along the stretch of mountainside road that was Kill Box 5, the face of Hill 1405 was exploding in violent plumes of earth and rock and the evaporating numbers of Zentraedi left to the probing platoon were being forced into decisions of dire consequence as the world continued to disintegrate around them. Unaccustomed to mass, indirect projectile fire- the Zentraedi were nonetheless quick studies. Roughly half of the platoon opted to leap into the maw of the chasm as those who were indecisive, or hesitated a fractional-second too long were obliterated indiscriminately.

In artillery terminology, what was devastating the eastern face of Hill 1405 was known as "MRSI"- _Multiple Rounds Simultaneous Impact_ \- pronounced ironically but probably not accidentally as, " _Mercy_ ". Artillery commanders knowing the positions of their pieces, the location of their targets, the distance between each, and the time required for a projectile to traverse the distance calculated the precise moment at which each battery would have to fire in a fire mission to bring the maximum number of projectiles down on the target area at precisely the same moment.

MRSI required computers calculating trajectories, velocities and physical forces coldly and swiftly.

What resulted was what Saenz and his men saw across the valley through thickening smoke and dust along the slope of Hill 1405.

Brilliant dots of light rippled in clusters through the murk of smoke and displaced earth as the sub-munitions carried to the kill box by 155mm artillery shells either found ground or found a target in the form of Zentraedi mecha.

Where a shaped-charge bomblet met a terilium hull, a finger of aluminum under ultra-high pressure pierced easily the thin armor of the Regult killing the giant occupant within with the sudden and massive spike in cabin temperature and pressure that the relatively small penetrator caused.

As the steady barrage of 155mm shells and their sub-munitions made steady work of pock-marking the extreme slopes of Hill 1405, the first 16" salvos arrived- a mixture of sub-munitions carrying and high-explosive projectiles. What nature in its steady and unrelenting process might have taken decades or centuries to accomplish, the M.A.C. IIs and their long rifles accomplished in seconds. Earth and rock was gouged out of the hill, leaving swimming pool sized wounds and changing the contours of the terrain with each heaven-shaking blast.

In this manner, Lieutenant Saenz watched a Zentraedi platoon evaporate before him in a matter of only seconds. As the focused barrage continued on what was now an empty kill box and gravity continued to carry entire sections of the Topia Road down into the valley, he fought to overcome the horrific and paralyzing awe of the spectacle.

His eardrums shocked and dulled by the constant waves of concussions that rolled over him and Hill 1121, Saenz was still in enough possession of his faculties to make a necessary call.

" _Rainmaker, Rainmaker- Shaman One-. Cease fire! …Repeat, cease fire!.. Kill box is secure! Do you copy? Over!"_

Saenz heard _something_ in reply through his headset, but at the moment his hearing was too far gone for it to be intelligible. The proof that his instruction to cease fire had been received came nearly fifteen seconds later as the last of the incoming shells found their mark and the bombardment ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Hill 1405 was a dark shape hunched beneath a shroud of swirling inkiness that was only slightly darker than the jungle night.

" _Nothing_ survived _that_.", Sgt. Olguin yelled at the top of his voice into his lieutenant's ear to be heard over the shrill ringing that plagued them both now.

Saenz had heard him, _barely_ , and was in agreement.

 _Nothing_ could have survived the destruction that he and his men had just witnessed.

-But what gave Saenz apprehensive pause was the distinct feeling that somewhere not too distant there was someone else watching whose concern had not been the survival of the platoon that had had just been obliterated.

And then there was the question of what that _someone_ was planning to do next in reply.

Action Commander Vulch felt a measure of grim satisfaction as the last squealing transmissions from the vanguard platoon went silent. He did not need the magnification features of his Nacht Rau suit's optics systems to see the cloud of smoke that was rising at a distance in the pass at one of several points that he himself would have chosen to mount a defense of this, the only passible valley along the course of this mountain chain for some distance either east or west.

The micronians had chosen an ideal choke point in the valley to defend, and based on the brevity and effectiveness of the indirect fire attack on Vulch's sacrificial unit- suitable if not primitive weapons with which to do it.

And yet, the micronian commander was holding back.

Vulch knew as much.

There was a broadening to the valley to the southwest of the hill he had just pulverized, and the enemy was holding a number of mecha there.

Vulch had received intelligence of this from distant orbiting warships that could have, had standing general orders not forbade it, cleared the path for Vulch easily with only the limited use of their guns.

The general order was in place though, and therefore it was primarily Vulch's burden to press through.

Two medium-assault regiments of _regulars_ under Te'Dak Tohl officers stretched atohls and atohls back along the twisting and winding valley of this buckled, alien landscape in an exaggerated column that could not be helped.

With his company of Serhot Ran supporting, and priority tasking to Gnerls from warships in low orbit as they passed this region at his disposal, Vulch knew he had the forces required to press through the choke point and roll over his opponent who had no reason to come to him. But this was not an excuse to be hasty or wasteful in the use of the units placed under his command. Improved norghil as many of them were, there was no benefit in their deaths if they did not have the chance to similarly threaten their micronian counterparts.

"Enemy battery positions have been calculated by the trajectory of their fire, Lord.", Sub-Commander Ramij, Vulch's executive officer reported having stood in quiet study of the opening of the battle with his superior.

"-We could call in Gnerls to deal with this swiftly, Lord."

"Hold the Gnerls in reserve.", Vulch replied, rejecting the suggestion without scorn, "They are an asset we may yet need and one made more effective if they are a surprise to the enemy. –No, we can deal with the enemy gun positions ourselves."

"Detach all but a squad of our Serhot Ran and take personal command, Ramij. Move under the cover of terrain on the guns. I will oversee the advance of the regulars through the pass. When you are nearing your objective, I'll have our Artillery Regults saturate the target areas with missile fire. You should find your objectives softened and easily dealt with then."

"You will reveal the assault force, Lord.", Ramij warned, "-And with a good distance to cover through the confines of these valleys."

"Yes, it is a risk.", Vulch agreed, "But it will be mine. The micronians must suspect by now that the probe was not operating alone. I prefer to have their suspicion confirmed on _our_ terms."

"Agreed, Lord- but guard yourself- this war has many days to come.", Ramij said, moving his Nacht Rau combat suit toward the edge of the sheer drop to the valley below where much of the Serhot Ran company covered in concealment.

"As with you.", Vulch replied.

The mixed odors of rich earth, sharply bitter expended synthetic explosives, and wood smoke from secondary fires had reached Lt Saenz in his observation post as the visible, residual signs of the artillery strike continued to settle into the valley floor below between Hill 1405 and Hill 1121. A stillness draped itself over the landscape and felt ominously to the ASC officer more like a pause than an ending.

His intuition was not long standing before it was confirmed.

"Shaman One, Shaman Four-.", came the call from the farthest OP north along the spine of Hill1121. Corporal Ralston, a conspicuous yet welcome _gringo_ transplant from the predominantly RDF-loyal lands north of the Rio Grande, spoke with hushed urgency into the radio for his superior to hear.

"-Eyes on hostile mecha- moving south along the ravine floor-."

"Shaman Four, Shaman One-.", replied Saenz taking advantage in the drop-off of Ralston's voice, "- _How many?!..._ "

" _Lots!_ "

Lt Saenz rose from the depression in the rock outcropping that had provided a ready observation post and raised his binoculars to his eyes, facing northwest. His OP did not have the field of view that the northern OP enjoyed, allowing Ralston to see around the bend of 1405 and into the northwesterly progression of the valley- but he could see up to the turn.

Amplified by the light intensification of his binoculars, the valley floor was illuminated by what to the naked eye would have been the soft, red glow of Zentraedi sensor eyes belonging one apiece to four power armor suits leading on foot an Officer's Pod and twice as many Regults. Moments later the valley glowed with the illumination of scores of sensor eyes building toward hundreds as the Regults that they were components of moved with impressive speed and agility over broken and rocky ground.

" _Rainmaker, Rainmaker- Shaman Four- Fire mission- Grid reference Delta Romeo Three-four-seven_ …."

Saenz heard Ralston calling in the co-ordinates for the artillery attack, but as Regults in depth began to sweep the breadth of the valley in their onslaught the way summer rain storms could suddenly fill a gully, the lieutenant felt a seed of panic begin to germinate deep in his gut.

Commander Hircna took some comfort now in the snugness of the seat harnesses he had pulled uncomfortably tight minutes earlier before the order had been given for the full advance. Te'Dak Tohl, and a well-seasoned veteran of many campaigns and more battles than could easily be remembered with the 7th Grand Army- the officer had known from quick glance at the uneven heavily foliaged ground of the valley before him could be negotiated and traversed without significant difficulty by his Glaug- but that the ride would do his enemy's work for him if he were not properly secured to his seat by the five-way strap system.

Now, on the advance, his experience and intuition was proving right.

Even the ground of this dank, alien world seemed to resist. Hircna could feel the articulated pads of the combat pod's feet tangle and snag with each reaching stride, and struggle to find stable purchase with each footfall.

The Glaug did not stumble, nor would it so long as its master was not foolish in the elected path he set it on- but it was not able to reach its full, bi-pedal advancing speed either. The commander would have been slowed regardless by the advance of his regiment's Regults even if his Glaug could have achieved a better, sure-footed pace as they enjoyed slightly less stability afoot.

Commander Hircna was not concerned about the speed with which he could close with the enemy- the micronians by all estimation had placed themselves in a position suited for fighting and with the intention to do so. They would wait patiently for the fight to come to them.

The regiment's commanding officer was more concerned about clearing the enclosed space of this chasm. A probe platoon had been oblitterated already- sacrificed specifically to assess the micronians' methods and effectiveness in using this ground to their advantage- and they had not disappointed.

Regrettably, there was every reason to think that they could repeat the effect and on a larger scale if the opportunity presented itself.

Two regiments was certainly such an opportunity.

Commander Hircna had been silently appalled some seasons earlier as his cohesive unit of Te'Dak Tohl regulars had been diluted with what had been promised to him to be _improved_ norghil made suitable to serve with his Warriors by additional subconscious conditioning and skill set implantation during their pre-Awakening stasis. His doubts had withered quickly during exercises when they had performed admirably, or at least no worse than Te'Dak Tohl regulars wet from the tubes.

But actual combat was different- and this would be their first experience with it. And what made the proposition worse was that there was no measure of conditioning or training that gave his norghil regulars any better chance of surviving what was to be their first taste of the Warrior's reason for being. They would see not only others of their kind but also Te'Dak Tohl regulars, whom they'd come to regard with understandable admiration, fall to the random whim of Fate.

This would be the moment when the _theory_ of the "improved" norghil was either validated or dashed.

Vulch, the Serhot Ran action commander with whom Hircna had shared a battlefield before knew this as well and had detached a large portion of his company to neutralize the threat of the micronians indirect-fire projectile guns in conjunction with a counterstrike still being made by rear elements of missile-bearing artillery Regults in the regiment trailing Hircna's.

As explosions to the rear of Hircna's unit in the order of advance rippled the air and shook the ground marking returned counter-battery fire, it was clear that Vulch had not been able to preclude the attack.

The best hope now as that he could minimize the damage it would do.

A salvo of six M344-B 155mm shells plunged at a steep trajectory into a span of the valley between Hill 1405 and Hill 1121 that narrowed to less than 200 meters. Timed by their rotations in flight, the six shells were nearer to valley floor than hilltop before their burster charges fired, splitting the shell housings and scattering the 20 anti-mecha sub-munitions carried by each shell out over the target area below. Nylon streamers stabilized each convex-faced disc to present its shaped charge as it plummeted, unguided toward the churning torrent of Regults passing below.

The low-bursting pattern of sub-munitions cascaded down to intercept randomly the leading edge of a Regult platoon advancing in the best approximation of a box formation that the irregular terrain allowed.

Glancing hits from sub-munitions staggered some Regults, sheering away modular sections of external hull and light armor, and without exception sending each of the seven Regults struck in this manner to the rocky ground.

A half dozen more of the standard Zentraedi light mecha were struck in a more lethal manner, the sub-munitions hitting them atop their bulbous main bodies, permitting the shaped-charges of the sub-munitions to penetrate the pilots' compartments at the point of the most minimal armor protection and uniformly killing the warrior occupants.

None of the felled mecha had yet come to a stop in the churning clouds of smoke, displaced dirt and foliage thrown up by sub-munitions that had not intercepted mecha and that had gone straight to ground when the trailing squads of Regults trampled their stricken and dead comrades under. Spacing intervals between the advancing lines was more cause than indifference. Though the desire of each warrior whose Regult trampled a fallen unit-member to clear the danger area and not join their slain comrades in their fate was also a great, unacknowledged factor.

In seconds, the damaged or destroyed Regults that had gone to ground were crumpled and barely recognizable masses of twisted, dull-grey metal weeping from torn component seams the blue-green blood of their dead occupants.

Lieutenant Saenz watched along the length of the valley floor that he was able to observe as smoke and dust rose in an even cloud like the water level rising in a quickly-filling bathtub. 155mm shells continued to scream in, no longer in the coordinated fashion of MRSI but as quickly as the artillery crews could load and fire.

Dots of light above the valley showed where shells burst, and were followed at several second intervals by clusters of explosive flashes within cloud of dirt and smoke below. Sound, traveling as it did, would reach the lieutenant's observation post moments later and out of sync with the explosions that had generated it. Disembodied drumrolls of sharp cracks sounding more like children's strings of firecrackers set off at Cinco de Mayo celebrations than killing instruments echoed off the hillsides as the same infernal scene copied itself all along the valley floor over and over.

The heavier roar of displaced air accompanying the arrival of massive 16-inch projectiles drowned out the explosions of the 155mm sub-munitions and seemed to suck the air out of the valley itself in the instant before the high-explosive rounds struck.

Great strobe flashes in salvo groupings of two or four illuminated the valley brightly through the murk, showing in the instant of their brilliance the silhouettes of Regults- both whole and fragmented- being thrown with the force of the shells' detonations.

Beneath and around Lieutenant Saenz, Hill 1121 threatened to shake apart as dirt and small stones from the slope above his OP danced down the steep grade in a thin flowing blanket to shower him and his men.

In the bursts of light, Saenz could see the face of the private in his OP, eyes clamped firmly shut and the words of The Lord's Prayer flying from his lips as quickly as breath would carry them.

As Lieutenant Saenz felt the sledge-hammer concussive blow of another 16-inch projectile strike his ribcage, he doubted whether The Almighty could hear the private's supplications.

No doubt, the Zentraedi were appealing in whatever approximation of faith they held as they pressed with fool-bravery through the hell-storm that was battering the ASC observation posts at a "safe distance".

A thin curl of smoke smelling strongly of ammonia-rich propellant twisted and rose away from the 155mm artillery piece's breech as the gun returned from recoil and the casing was ejected out into a dimple dug into the earth by casings that had been ejected before.

As the casing was snatched away and discarded to a growing pile by a member of the crew, a loader with powerful arms and shoulders made so by his occupation rammed another round into the open breech- drawing his right hand back an instant before the breech door snapped shut.

The commander of Gun 4, Battery 3 was aware of the intricate sequence of interactions between the four enlistedman crew and their 155mm artillery piece, but trusted in the rigorous training that allowed them to move as though parts of the gun itself. He was focused however on cross-checking the angle and direction for the piece itself sent to him by the firing director's computer. Working independently on a tablet computer, factors for range, target elevation, wind, and even the heat of and wear un the piece's barrel were plugged in. When the returned settings matched those of the director's computer, assurance of a valid shooting solution was achieved. Even if the settings did not precisely match- at this moment the battery was involved in a _saturation_ fire mission that relied on volume of fire on the target area rather than pinpoint precision in the fall of each round.

As the lanyard was being set to fire the 155mm piece and the commander was verifying that his crew was clear of the path of the recoil, a sound of warning pierced the air and the dulled hearing of the crew.

A shrill wail from the automated M-407 anti-aircraft pulse laser called out its alarm.

The gun that had been methodically sweeping the sky with microwave radar for signs of danger had now detected it, and automatic IFF hails not being answered by the radar targets- the gun and its modestly sophisticated programing considered the threat valid.

" _Take cover!"_ , bellowed the gun commander at the top of his voice, knowing that the threat that the AA-gun had detected was not to itself but more than likely to the guns in Battery 3.

The darkness of night was swept away in strobe effect by the rapid discharge of the anti-aircraft automated gun sentry's laser that stitched a distant "box" of sky containing an inbound missile with lasers before assessing its effect and determining whether to stand down, re-engage the same target, or move on to another, if any.

All along the ridge where 71st Artillery was deployed, the M-407s distributed evenly amongst the gun batteries were now all firing. West, downrange of the guns, and at a slight angle above level there were sparks and bursts of flame as "the threat"- Zentraedi missiles were shredded mid-flight by dense fusillades of laser bolts.

As the battery commander reached and dove over the deep wall of sandbags filled with the earth from the hole he tumbled into with his crew- he realized that not only were the AA guns not ceasing fire, but that the squad of MB-1A Heavy Battloids that had been standing post nearby to his gun were hastily falling back as well.

This was _not_ good.

Sub-Lieutenant Dahr was just outside of the range of the weapons he would have considered using on such an insignificant target as a fixed gun position and on a steep, plunging decent when the micronian anti-missile weapon swept the last of the dozen or more missiles fired by distant Regult Artillery Pods as a counterbattery attack from the sky. The counterbattery attack had been an attempt in earnest to silence the primitive, micronian projectile guns that despite their lack of sophistication had dealt a stinging blow to the mixed assault force of Serhot Ran, Te'Dak Tohl and norghil regulars. The counterbattery fire had failed however against this particular gun position simply for insufficient density of the missile attack.

This was of little surprise to Dahr, whose short experience with this alien species and from the information that had been briefed to him all throughout preparation for this campaign had suggested an enemy of limited numbers and resources- but one well prepared and inclined to defend themselves within their limitations.

In this instance, it was of little matter even as Dahr's threat warning system informed him that the anti-missile weapon had now begun tracking him as a target. The missiles fired by the Regult units had provided all the distraction Dahr, and Warrior 1st Grade N'Rhyi required to close and finish the work for which the missiles had actually been launched.

A tightly patterned storm of laser bolts whose power was insufficient against the heavily armored Nacht Rau stitched Dahr's suit's center mass in the split second before the power armor crushed it underfoot in landing. The sub-lieutenant had barely felt the insignificant strikes, his attention being fixed on the marginally more threatening micronian mecha that had retreated a short distance before unwisely opting to stand and fight.

Three pairs formed a staggered line, firing their energy rifles in mass.

Dahr _did_ feel the more pronounced hits of ion bolts that were still not powerful enough to penetrate his armor, but caused the sub-lieutenant concern that they might strike a lucky enough blow to reduce his Nacht Rau's combat readiness before the real fight had even been joined.

" _Put them down!"_ , Dahr ordered, bringing his Nador rifle to bear in reply.

Warrant Officer Juarez felt the dread of the inevitable in the moment as the four, short range _armor piercing_ weapons that had been provided for him in his MB-1A's non-standard, external missile rig struck the center mass of one of the two towering Zentraedi war machines with an impressive flash, but little other damage than a spray of fragments from the suit's outer layer of armor. The alien was knocked back on its heels slightly, but showed no indication of significant damage.

 _Its_ heels Juarez reminded himself grimly, remembering a report that seemed odd but otherwise inconsequential at the time that there were reports that female variant power armor was being operated by _non-Quadranos_ – males.

At the time he'd read the brief, three-sentence report, Juarez had taken it as an advisory on one of what he was sure would be many oddities and revelations in the war. Now there was an element that cut deep into generations of Guatemalan _machismo_.

There was the real possibility of being killed by a _woman_ without having inflicted so much as a scratch on her in return.

But things being as they were, it could also be a male.

In the context of the moment where the gender of the aliens was totally irrelevant, Juarez recognized with grim humor that somehow it did to him.

" _Cover and withdraw by two!"_ , Juarez ordered only moments after the two Zentraedi mecha had reached ground. It took only that long for the last missiles from his Battloid squad to hit their marks and prove equally ineffective as the missiles he'd led the attack with. The EU-11s, which were now Juarez's squad's last resort, packed an impressive punch for a rapid-fire, particle beam weapon against light and moderately armored targets.

In this instance, Juarez hoped only that they would provide enough of a distraction for his unit to disengage and enough of a deterrent to keep the more formidable Zentraedi power armor from pursuing.

Firebase "Rainmaker" was folding rapidly at its dispersed gun positions along the ridge crest of Hill 1377. Warrant Officer Juarez and his squad had the unnerving fortune of hearing the plight of other gun positions similar to theirs as they too fought a controlled retreat down the steep slopes and into the nearly unnavigable terrain.

Juarez felt the concussive jolt of an explosion through the armored insulation of his Battloid as one of the Zentraedi power armor suits maintained a slow, almost leisurely pursuit of the warrant officer's retreating squad and replied in kind to their combined fire with an energy rifle nearly the size of the MB-1As it was firing upon. The explosion rocked Juarez violently within the snug fit of his pilot's compartment that rang about him like a church bell as dismembered segments of another Battloid in the squad bludgeoned Juarez's machine with their explosive scattering..

The heavy work of dealing with these Zentraedi would have to go to others better suited for it. And those support provisions had already been made.

" _94 Alpha, 77 India- WHERE THE HELL IS MY AIR SUPPORT?!.."_

It was now a matter of principle.

Warrior N'Rhyi had effectively destroyed the micronian projectile gun on his descent to earth with a single round from his Nador rifle that both pierced the breechblock and cracked with its detonation the recuperator cylinder of the recoil system. As Dahr had used the automated anti-missile gun as his landing target- obliterating it with the weight of his combat suit- so did N'Rhyi with the 155mm piece, delivering the final and unnecessary blow as the telephone pole length barrel bent mid-tube under the fool of the warrior's Nacht-Rau.

With equal parts wisdom and cowardice, the micronians including six in frail approximations of mecha had fled their position before either combat suit had even touched ground. Less wise, the mecha while reversing downhill had made challenge with a full assault of the limited weapons they carried- amounting to little more than cratered frontal armor on the two Nacht Rau suits and a ringing in the ears for Dahr whose suit had taken the brunt of a minimally effective missile strike.

At least the micronians had preserved for him the more elevated distinction in action of _not_ being forced to shoot the enemy in the back as they fled.

A salvo of missiles could have ended the micronians swiftly, but Dahr resisted with the knowledge that this minor, impromptu tasking was far from the last action he could expect this night and that more formidable adversaries may still lay in the path that Fate had set him on. –And there was also a gratification in the intentional act of aiming and firing his suit's Nador rifle. It was a moment of connection between two warriors in which the target realized he had been singled out to be ended.

A second alien mecha disintegrated in a spray of burning components as another short burst from Dahr's Nador easily penetrated the Battloid's comparatively thin armor. The high-velocity sweep of metal shards and mechanical fragments did its worst to the handful of micronians who had been fleeing without benefit of mecha or armor of any real substance. The force of the blast had knocked them down uniformly, and only half the number that had been flung to ground rose again to continue their tumble downhill.

With N'Rhyi now freed of the task of destroying the projectile weapon and able to join in on the lop-sided fight against the micronian mecha, the skirmish was growing tiresome and tedious for Dahr. Turning his Nador randomly to one of the four remaining micronian mecha that were in full, cowardly flight downhill from the engagement, he hoped to end this and return west to join the promise of real combat.

 _Real combat_ found Dahr and N'Rhyi first.

It was a matter of mere seconds between when the threat warning systems of the two Nacht Rau combat suits began to scream and when the threat was upon them- scarcely enough time for the warriors' minds to shift from the offensive to the defensive and act accordingly.

Two Jaguar missiles struck N'Rhyi's suit, center mass, piercing its thick, composite armor with a warhead designed for devastating overkill of lesser mecha and by coincidence having the adequate destructive force to kill an armor system the designers had not encountered or actively conceived of.

The Nacht Rau fractured violently at the points of articulation, scattering itself at high velocity and pelting its surviving counterpart with its flaming contents both mechanical and organic.

Sub-Lieutenant Dahr followed the path of the missiles back along their track to the east and almost instantly found the horizon to be full of attackers that had not been there moments before.

Micronian _airships_ of a category he'd been briefed on during pre-operational preparation, but a variant he'd never seen before were now vaulting the summit of the hill immediately east- levitating on the lift generated by a primitive rotary wing. Like other craft of its kind that Dahr had become familiar with through video, images, and reports- these craft retained an aerodynamic if not angular shape and were clearly laden heavily with weapons across their low-fixed sponsons wings.

Dahr's study of the odd-looking craft was cut short by their pressing of their attack on the advance.

The Nacht Rau's warning system screeched and its focused energy defense system auto-engaged as a guided weapons' launch was detected and determined to be directed at the combat suit. Faster than conscious decision, Dahr activated the suit's shield system a fraction of a second before three Jaguar missiles like those that had ended N'Rhyi moments before found him through a veil of EM and IR thrown up by his suit in its own defense.

The triple-detonation of warheads against the energy shield were powerful enough to stagger the Nacht Rau but not topple it, and focused Dahr where others may have been stunned.

His suit's shield had prevented the Nacht-Rau's probable destruction, but was now drastically weakened and in need of reintegration. Dahr had intentions along more offensive lines.

The micronians had numbers as their advantage, but did not have the experience to know that against Serhot Ran, they would _need those numbers._

Duty that Dahr had lived by demanded this lesson be taught, and if necessary it would be by that Duty that he died.

".. _Good hit, negative effect!.."_ , Chief Warrant Officer Santiago, 4th Air Assault Regiment, Army of the Southern Cross, both reported to the Oasis JOC and documented to his AJACS' flight recorder for review and debriefing later, "-It has some kind of energy shielding system like an Officer's Pod, or something-."

Unaware of how accurate his assessment had been, Santiago was cognoscenti of how immediately unimportant the observation was. _It_ was still functional enemy mecha, and therefore a threat to be dealt with- but quickly. Santiago's mission was still a distance west and involved many more than a single Zentraedi.

"A-Flight, First Section loiter with me to secure the area-. Rodrigo, take the squadron on to the main objective and we'll join up!"

Nestled shoulder-deep in the armor-encased, single seat cockpit, Santiago could never be sure whether he felt more like an attack pilot or a tanker- the bubble canopy leaning him in one direction and the solid bulk of the AJACS leaning him in the other.

As the filmy aura of the Zentraedi armor suit's shield dissipated about it as it steadied itself on its feet after surviving the strike of three Jaguars, Santiago was hopeful that he AJACS justified a little of _both._

Three quarters of his squadron peeled off from his flight by his command, transitioning to conventional flight as their rotors and rotor hubs dropped into a dorsal storage space. Now operating as conventional, fixed-wing aircraft the bulk of the AJACS squadron accelerated quickly out of sight to support a developing fight farther west.

Santiago wondered as they left and the sole Zentraedi whom his flight outnumbered by three seemed to stare him down hatefully, whether it might have been a better idea to let them stay until _this_ fight was over.

A blast of thrust flattened the vegetation all about the power armor's feet and propelled it skyward at an incredible rate of climb. Shoulder missile compartments snapped open and the flash and initial billow of smoke signifying launches was followed by the diverging trails of twenty freed weapons.

" _Break!"_ , Santiago called in needless warning as his threat warning system squealed its report of missiles tracking.

The section of four AJACS split their loose formation down to single ships as the electronic countermeasures of each augmented the automatic dispensing of chaff and flares with EM hash powerful enough to be felt as the raising of hairs on the pilots' forearms.

Mindful of the hilltop that had been occupied by an ASC artillery battery and that had been approaching rapidly when the surviving Zentraedi had taken to the air, Santiago employed a characteristic of rotary-winged flight not enjoyed by conventional, fixed wing aviators. As the missiles directed at him went wide to starboard, passing through the same void space that the Zentraedi who had fired them passed a moment later, Santiago stomped the right rudder pedal bringing the AJACS's nose about as inertia kept the airframe's motion and direction constant.

Skidding sideways through the air, Santiago drew down on the ascending alien, directing the weapons of his mecha with the targeting reticule of his IHSS-integrated helmet. A fusillade of Hydra rockets, 40mm cannon shells from the two pylon-mounted gun pods, and the ship's last Jaguar lit the night as they traversed the distance to target- and then illuminated it brilliantly as a portion of the weapons found their mark.

Sub-Lieutenant Dahr bit back a scream as the sensation of a hundred searing knifepoints sinking into his flesh racked his right side, accompanying the most violent full body blow he had ever experienced. Through multiple caution and warning alarms and their associated visual cues, the warrior was aware of the tumble his Nacht Rau had been set into on its ascent to what Dahr had hoped to be a tactically superior position.

Familiarity with the machine and honed instinct allowed Dahr to stabilize his suit as the pilot fought through alternating waves of pain and disorientation from his micronian-inflicted wounds- but even in his dazed state he could tell that he was not long for the air. The smooth, shrill whine of the Nacht Rau's boosters had changed to a coarse, labored grind that cut and faltered in repeated and increasing catches. Without need of the Nacht Rau's imbedded diagnostic systems, Dahr knew the boosters would fail and that this fight was to go to ground.

Sub-Lieutenant Dahr had no objection to this as he had no intention of going to ground alone.

Chief Warrant Officer Santiago marveled as the Zentraedi power armor suit emerged intact, but streaming a trail of smoke and debris from the cloud created at the point of contact and detonation of the weapons he had fired. For a horrific moment, the vague and quickly circulating rumors of an unstoppable juggernaut of Zentraedi mecha seemed to be confirmed as the ascending combat suit appeared to shrug off the heaviest punishment that Santiago was able to deal it.

Like almost all rumors though, it faded quickly under scrutiny.

The rocketing ascent of the combat suit began to slow with signs of mechanical and possibly biological distress as gravity quickly overwhelmed momentum and failing engines, dragging down the suit's velocity until it teetered on stalling.

Santiago watched through the fluttering optical disruptions of his AJACS's rotor blades as the power armor wobbled at the apex of its flight, half-turned, and began to drop into a semi controlled dive-.

-Diving with unmistakable intent _at_ Santiago…

For reasons of desperation and impulse, and not logic or training, Santiago flipped the transformation control of his AJACS.

Warrant Officer Perez eased off the left rudder of his AJACs gradually as the spin that the strike of a missile from the Zentraedi power armor was brought under control and nulled. Over the wail of his ship's warning systems, Perez retained the sense of his surroundings enough to recognize that while not mortal, the damage to his AJACS was significant. The ship felt unbalanced and heavy to starboard following the hit to port, and a vibration rode down through the rotor mast and transmission to be felt by the pilot as a quiver through his lower back and spine- likely damage to the rotor blades from the explosive scattering of missile and AJACS fragments.

A quick glance to port over the craft's bulky, armored airframe showed Perez exactly what he had suspected he would see-. The port sponson-wing of the AJACS, whose tip should have been visible and still laden with ordinance was gone- likely sheered away at the wing root.

The AJACS was shaky and unstable, but still aloft- and for Perez, that was just fine for now.

A blur of motion just at the edge of his sight to the right side of his field of vision caused Perez's head to come about with adrenaline-fueled reflex.

Though not a threat to him, Perez was shocked to see another AJACS, likely from the squadron leader Santiago's element rapidly transform, mid-air, into the non-flightworthy Battloid mode an instant before the wounded Zentraedi power armor caught it in a mechanical approximation of a flying tackle as it plummeted toward the hilltop nearly 200 meters below-.

Nearly 40 metric tons of grappling machine and occupant slammed into the already decimated artillery fire base with the groan and squeal of metals meeting with unimaginable force. A deep furrow was left stretching many meters as the Nacht Rau plowed the earth with the prone AJACS Battloid in a violent parody of a toboggan ride that swept destroyed 155mm artillery pieces before the pair like children's toys and carried with them as their slide reached the western slope of Hill 1377 and became a tumble down the steep grade to the valley floor below.

Chief Warrant Officer Santiago was unable to differentiate up from down, strikes against rock versus with the Zentraedi power armor, and was only aware of the violent descent of his mecha while his body threatened to liquefy with the brutality of the fall.

A final body slam delivered by invisible hands expert in dealing out physical discomfort rattled Santiago's bones against one another and left him wheezing for the breath that had been knocked out of him. –But with the exception of the spinning he knew only to be in his own head, he and his Battloid had come to a rest.

-And unfortunately, it occurred to him in the following instant, it meant that the Zentraedi had as well….

Ears ringing and instrumentation flickering all about him, Santiago was amazed to find that his AJACS Battloid, now sadistically baptized into combat, was answering to the neural control system and his direction to right itself.

Sluggish but doggedly, like a boxer rising from an unexpected cross-cut to the jaw, the Battloid got its feet beneath it again and rose with a cascade of dislodged earth and vegetation falling free of it as mechanical legs again supported the vehicle's substantial, armored weight.

Santiago's next critical order of business, _finding the enemy_ , took less time.

As the video on the inside of his helmet visor fluttered back into a stable image, the chief warrant officer's heartrate surged to find the Zentraedi power armor less than ten meters off, propped up on its right elbow in a half-sitting position, and drawing down on him with the largest energy weapon he had ever seen mounted on a mecha.

But nothing happened…

Strangely, and perhaps fueled by too many action films in his formative years, Santiago thought he could hear the impotent _click_ of a trigger being closed without the desired result.

Santiago understood for a moment the associated, inexplicable pause of the action film hero after the failure of an adversary's weapon as the realization that he would not be obliterated sent a rejuvenating surge through him.

Weapons sponsons torn away and his AJACS's standard EP-20 gun pod lost somewhere along 400meters of steep hillside, Santiago raised the right forearm-mounted pulse laser cannon at the Zentraedi power armor.

There was another, very real, impotent _click_ as Santiago closed the trigger without the desired result.

With all weapons systems showing as damaged and off-line, and the copper taste of his own blood in his mouth and the smell of it in his nostrils, Sub-Lieutenant Dahr sensed his micronian enemy to be in a similar state as the ugly, angular mecha continued its hollow threat with a non-functional weapon.

This was to be decided hand-to-hand.

Dahr relished the opportunity to _personalize_ the micronian's end and only regretted that he would not be able to lengthen the process.

Battered and smoking from the extensive damage inflicted upon it, the Nacht Rau nonetheless rolled into a partially upright stance before it was caught in a tackle by the AJACS Battloid with as much force as could be built in closing the short distance between them.

With a crashing of metal whose sound rolled up the valley's sides, the two mecha tumbled over one another, both finding purchase with grasping mechanical hands on one another in a struggle to come to rest on top of the other.

Significantly more massive, the Nacht Rau quickly gained control of the grapple, coming out of the thrashing roll with a knee and a foot solidly planted in the ground to support it. Motors strained and the frame of the Nacht Rau groaned as it rose, carrying the Battloid by the shoulder and groin, bringing it above the Zentraedi pilot's head like a gross approximation of a power lifter's final stance, before hurling it into an exposed rock face.

Seemingly unharmed, the Battloid was up, on good footing, and ready to defend as the Nacht Rau continued its assault with a lunging grab for the smaller mecha.

Santiago was able to sidestep the Nacht Rau barely, and find its balance point at the waist to use its own motion against it and hurl the power armor headlong into the same rock face it had used seconds earlier to try to break him.

As the Battloid had, the Nacht Rau rose again without pause, but with its left shoulder-mounted missile launcher bent and crushed in hopelessly beyond repair. With a malicious air of calculated intent, it closed on the Battloid unhurried and conscious of its last mistake. The first two steps, slow and deliberate were followed by two more intended to build force and terminating in a flying kick that the Battloid caught and absorbed in the chest.

The smaller machine toppled like a pin struck squarely by a bowling ball until Santiago came to rest face down in earth upturned by the brief but fierce melee. Only in this minor defeat and through his video system that somehow was still functional, Santiago found his first real advantage in the brawl.

The slightly bent, but unmistakable shape of a 155mm gun barrel could be seen partially covered in dirt and dislodged foliage from its fall with the two mecha down the plunging hillside.

Sub-Lieutenant Dahr could feel Fate pulling him inescapably toward his end, and knew without knowing how he knew that his time was short. His body felt dulled with indications of distant pain that somehow he felt but at the same time did not seem connected to him. He could hear the gurgling of blood in his lungs as he breathed and had already been humiliated, if only to himself, with hacking fits that filled his mouth with froth that he could only spit into the confines of his suit.

He was dying-.

But he _would_ finish this micronian _first_.

Even now, as the smaller mecha fought its way back onto its feet, it remained hunched and stooped. It would not take much to send it over onto its back again for the gratification of stomping its rugged, little body until Dahr was rewarded by the feeling of its body caving in on the fragile creature at the controls-.

The Battloid suddenly came up, lashing out with the length of an artillery piece held at the muzzle end. Swung with all of the power the Battloid could generate, the breech block connected solidly with the Nacht Rau's left knee- separating from the barrel with the force of the blow landed.

The power armor's knee buckled along an axis of normal articulation, causing the pilot to pinwheel his arms as he staggered for balance.

Santiago drew the barrel back in the same way as he'd learned to swing a baseball bat as a boy and stepped into a second swing.

The Nacht Rau, almost squarely on its feet again caught the other end of the improvised weapon and between the two war machines the multi-ton gun barrel twisted and bent like a plastic drinking straw.

Santiago felt the tremendous force transmitted through the solid structures of his Battloid as the Nacht Rau replied to the insult of attack in kind and with a kick from the leg whose knee the ASC AJACS pilot had failed to break.

As the Battloid skidded on its back and tore open earth that up to this moment had been virgin to the fight, it cleared an open path.

Santiago saw the flicker in their passing over of a fusillade of eight Hydra rockets fired in rapid, successive pairs from an unseen point down the path of the valley.

Weakened already by the damage that had brought it to ground and to a lesser extent by the fight that had followed, the Nacht Rau and Sub-Lieutenant Dahr were torn to pieces above the waist by multiple, armor-piercing rocket warheads.

" _Jefe,_ you look like _shit…_ ", said Warrant Officer Perez as his AJACS, still in helicopter mode, swept over and then came around into a stationary hover.

"-I wish I felt that good.", Santiago replied suddenly aware of the pain he felt across his whole body, and not even sure if Perez was receiving his reply.

"You're not going to fly that thing out of here-.", Perez observed astutely- the frame and modular components of Santiago's AJACS being visibly bent beyond any hope of transformation back into helicopter mode- let alone flight.

"I'll cover for you while you walk it back to base-."

Santiago remembered back an eternity to before this diversion and recalled the reason his squadron had been in the AO. There were ASC boots on the ground and squarely in the path of danger who needed close air support.

An AJACS, missing its port weapons sponson even as Perez's ship was, had better occupation this night than overseeing a lame Battloid make the walk to a forward base nearly sixty kilometers away.

"No- join up with the squadron. You're more needed there. Go now!"

Perez, though clearly eager to join the larger fight that the squadron was almost certainly now supporting also sounded hesitant-.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Yes! _Go!_ "

" _Con Dios, jefe…_ ", Perez said, rapidly lifting away to rejoin the other ships of Santiago's element that were now orbiting above.

Forming up, the flightworthy AJACS quickly turned west and vanished into the night leaving Santiago and bits of his enemy alone in the darkness.

Finding that his Battloid was somehow still able to stand and walk with a slightly debilitated gait, Santiago began to follow the valley south hoping for a cut in the hills that would allow him to begin to backtrack east, and with any luck without any contact with the enemy.

Despite what he had said to Perez- what he had been _obligated_ to say, Santiago found himself truly unsure as to whether he would be alright.

Major Rafael Rivera, "Caballero" Company, 94th Composite Armored Regiment, Army of The Southern Cross was certain that all Hell manifested as Zentraedi was coming right at him and the 35 VHT-1 hover tanks under his command.

The thunder of artillery's "steel rain" could be heard echoing and felt rolling down the narrow valley formed between Hill 1405 and Hill 1121, though the torrent of destruction had waned somewhat with the loss of several fire bases to enemy action. Flights of AJACS and conventional helicopter gunships were arriving on station, and an untold number of ASC-AF attack aircraft were rumored to be rushing in to support.

Still, from where Rivera's VHT stood in its awkward looking, bipedal, "Tank" mode at the southern end of perhaps the longest stretch of straight road leading toward Topia, it felt very much like his company was to shoulder the fight alone.

This of course was not the case.

Colonel Mejia was both a shrewd tactician and a fair man, knowing that ordering a single company to hold a length of road against a force many times its size would not only provide any guarantee that The Topia Road would remain under ASC control, but would also likely result in the loss of a valued company of Hover Tanks.

No, Mejia's orders had been reasonable and sound.

Rivera and his hover tankers would hold the enemy at this point as long as their position remained tenable, before collapsing in a fighting withdrawal through several switchbacks in the road into Topia itself.

And for this final act of measured, direct resistance against the Zentraedi whose numbers were now proving to exceed that of a simple probing force, this stretch of The Topia Road was ideal.

At the southern extreme where Caballero Company was situated, the pass was broader, even affording space along either side of the road for modest low-rise buildings and dwellings. VHT-1s stood in and amongst this cover that would provide no substantial protection once the fighting began, but that did provide a measure of concealment from the enemy that was an age-old military advantage dating back to when high military technology was a stone spearhead.

The other benefit to Rivera's unit and detriment to the Zentraedi of this 700 meter stretch of road was that to enter it, the aliens would have to round a tight turn at the north and travel a distance of nearly 200 meters through the confines of the steep canyon walls to either side of the narrow road.

A natural choke point.

Had the enemy been human, Rivera was certain that the approach to Topia would be deterrence enough to prevent the battle that was now inevitable. The enemy was Zentraedi however, and not given to the same convictions regarding the sanctity of life- their enemies' or their own. The _threat_ was not enough.

There would be blood.

Beyond the northern switchback on The Topia Road, and high on the slope of Hill 1121, Rivera saw the first glow of battle in the rising and falling of light cast by explosions and fire. The boom of detonating artillery shells and ordinance now also seemed less distant- heralding what was just out of sight.

Rivera drew deep one last, deep breath of fresh air, relishing the rich tones of earth and lush vegetation that gave it a nourishing character that the HEPA filtered, temperature and humidity regulated air supplied by his VHT-1 did not provide. The smell of home filling hm, the major toggled the switch to close the hatch, "buttoning" him up in the sophisticated war machine.

"All platoons, all tanks are authorized to fire at will on contact.", Rivera said, keeping his orders simple to the same level as the situation, "There are no friendly ground units downrange- so consider anything making a left turn around that corner- _hostile_."

As though validating Rivera's edict, there was a sudden disturbance at the north end of this stretch of The Topia Road that by naked eye might have been missed in its initial moments. With optical enhancement and integrated microwave radar, the Caballero tankers were all able to see the rapid ascent of Zentraedi, short range missiles from positions unseen far back in the twisting valley beyond the blind of the overlapping hill slopes that created the twists in the road.

High the missiles rose, fanning out with no discernable concentration before arcing and returning to earth in a pattern that was at best random, but deep in the length of road upon which ordinance began to fall.

The flash of high explosives illuminated the tossing of dirt, rock, and vegetation skyward with a mix of the more angular debris associated with human construction where a missile had by chance found an abandoned dwelling along the road. Other missiles burst in brilliant displays of plasma-napalm heat made more spectacular by the hover tankers' thermal imaging systems as they consumed both conventionally flammable and also naturally inflammable matter in the intensity of their burn.

It was blind covering fire thrown up by the Zentraedi in the path of their own advance, Rivera recognized. Knowing that opposition was before them, but not necessarily exactly where- the aliens were executing whatever they called their version of the _Hail Mary pass_ in hopes of improving their chances of surviving first contact.

It was as the third variety of Zentraedi missiles made their arrival known by the billow and rapid spread of harmless but effectively blinding smoke that the contact came.

Amazing to Rivera, the first Regult he had ever seen in action appeared by mounting the steep grade of the hill that formed part of the left turn in the road downrange. Its powerful legs that had allowed the single leap to the crest of the rise that was well above the rooftop level of many of the squat buildings along the roadside somehow in conjunction with the machine's large, articulated feet allowed the Battle Pod to find purchase and maintain footing.

Its ambulatory agility and stability did not however garner any protection from the guns of the tank company whose VHT-1s had not even been scratched by the short fall of Zentraedi missiles.

The stretch of Topia Road erupted in the joined and layering reports of hover tank ion cannons as focused, particle beam salvos ripped through the air before similarly ripping through the lightly armored Regult whose appearance had marked the arrival of the enemy.

Rivera's last glimpse of what remained of the Battle Pod was that of a dismembered leg flipping end over end back beyond the hill the Regult had mounted before the curtain of the smoke screen its comrades had created closed.

The center of the pass was now visually impenetrable, preventing the naked eye from comprehending the volume of Zentraedi rushing to contest the path to Topia.

Microwave radar was functioning though, and had no difficulties with the smokescreen the precluded visual contact.

Robbed of form, Regults appeared to the hover tankers as target indicator boxes thrown up onto the interior of their helmet visors. These boxes appeared and multiplied rapidly, filling the tankers' view with their onslaught.

Any semblance of tactical execution evaporated as the engagement instantaneously became a brawl. ASC hover tankers found no need nor time to aim at individual Regults as they glutted the narrow, northern end to the pass. It was only necessary to maintain the correct gun elevation and fire.

As Rivera fired his ion cannon repeatedly into the leading Regult elements as quickly as the weapon would recharge, his mind still found the bandwidth to recognize a great irony in this first exchange with the alien enemy. His training- the training of all of the VHT drivers- had been predicated on the controlled and disciplined employment of weapons as the final step of a process that involved tactical assessment and decision, maneuver, and position. As it was now, the fight was little more than pouring fire into a shooting gallery that just happened to be returning fire in kind.

The major's tank bucked and shuddered powerfully as an anonymous Zentraedi mecha of unknown configuration scored a hit on Rivera with a short fusillade of particle beams. While to be taken seriously, a burst of fire with such short endurance from the main weapons of the Regult series of Zentraedi mecha was of only modest effect against the Veritech Hover Tank's thick, sloped frontal armor. It was jarring enough however to end Rivera's few meandering thoughts.

The Topia Road was aglow with the rapid exchange of energy weapons fire from both contesting sides, reminding Rivera of the phenomenon of cloud lightning as electricity leapt from thunderhead to thunderhead. With the smokescreen that stubbornly clung to the hillsides and pass floor, there was only the diluted suggestion of the violence taking place as both the zip of energy bolt and the resulting explosions of hits were distorted.

Though the smokescreen laid down by the Zentraedi had been intended to rob Major Rivera and his hover tankers of their situational awareness in the fight, the VHT-1s they were at the controls of were superbly designed to _keep_ them aware.

What Rivera was aware of without visually absorbing the carnage being inflicted by his company downrange was that despite their unrelenting fire and the Zentraedi's ghastly and rapidly mounting casualties, Caballero Company was slowly losing the pass. Each indicator box that appeared to identify for a hover tanker an enemy target, there was a range scale displayed as and integrated into the fringe of the box.

In the opening moments of battle, the first Regults had been taken down at a range of over 500 meters. This margin between sides had shrunk to 450 meters quickly and had seemed to stabilize momentarily as the exchange of fire balanced. It had not been long in lasting though and Rivera was seeing ranges of less than 400 meters become the mean along the Zentraedi force's advancing edge.

With all of his hover tanks engaged along with a lesser number of supporting fighting vehicles, it was a simple, irrefutable fact that Rivera recognized that he could not hold the enemy back by his own means.

"Nine-Four Alpha, Caballero Actual- request _immediate_ gunship and fast-mover support… Overrun of my position is _imminent- Over!..._ "

Smaller indicator boxes projected within Rivera's helmet visor began to clutter his field of view- smaller boxes flickering with urgency to be seen and accompanied by the song of warning sirens that announced missiles.

Some of the Zentraedi weapons fired by Artillery Regults somewhere in the leading swell of the advancing wave came at the Caballeros at a flat trajectory, engaging specific Veritech Hover Tanks. Others came plunging down, fired from further in the enemy's rear lines to saturate areas with plasma napalm warheads.

The effect was immediate and unnerving to Rivera as the Zentraedi bit back viciously. VHT hover tankers and fighting vehicle commanders called out reports of damage sustained and their combat-worthiness in many cases. In other instances, Rivera was aware of an explosion within the smokescreen coinciding with the dying squelch of an ASC radio.

Silhouetted by the explosion of others of their kind, Major Rivera was able to make out the distorted forms of Regults as they pressed the attack unflinchingly through their own smokescreen and the hail of ion bolts and ASC missiles that was still being thrown downrange at them. Less precise either by intent or ability, fusillades of Zentraedi missiles swept out before the aliens onto the ASC defenders in reply shattering civilian structures and mecha alike with their detonations.

"-Caballero Actual, Nine-four Actual-.", began the reply that to Rivera had seemed an eternity in coming. It was Colonel Mejia himself, and to the major the sound of his superior's voice promised only direst news.

"Major, fast-movers are inbound- ninety seconds to your position. The confines of the pass and your proximity to hostiles may preclude a strike-."

Rivera was aware that Mejia's statement of the obvious had continued, but a missile striking the lower left quarter of his VHT's sloped, frontal armor which in turn shook him about the cockpit like a pair of dice in a cup at a craps tournament governed his attention more forcefully.

The literal fog of war was lit all about him and in the midst of his forward-most hover tank positions. The lines had met, and while the intermingling of Zentraedi and human was limited at the moment to a few desperate exchanges of energy fire between Regult and VHT, the forces were in the opening stages of merging into a close-quarters fight.

Rivera centered the aiming reticule on the body mass of a Regult that had apparently the same intent for him. The VHT-1 shook with multiple particle beam strikes from the Battle Pod which bolted quickly into an advance following the path of its fire. A single, far more powerful ion bolt from the hover tank's gun sheered away all of the Regult above the leg junction assembly in a scattering of recognizable and unidentifiable pieces. The ungoverned legs remaining loped on for four additional, unsteady paces before simply arresting in a freeze-frame pose of a step.

" _Bring the strike Nine-Four Actual!.._ ", Rivera barked, realizing at once that he was contesting with the sound of system warning sirens and the ringing of his own ears, " _We're more likely to survive our friendlies' good aim than the Dittos!.. My call! Bring the strike, danger close!.."_

"Roger that, Caballero Actual. Fast-movers inbound…. Get your heads down."

 _Bad times are coming..._

So said the motto of The Stormy Petrels and so was emblazoned beneath the squadron emblem of The Grim Reaper mounted atop a fearsome rendering of the inky-black bird as it dove, exaggerated talons extended, on unseen prey.

The motto, Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura "Takeo" Kusunoki knew, had been intended as a warning and a threat to those who might face his Valkyrie squadron. The prophetic phrase it seemed had a dual meaning, as prophetic phrases often did.

What had been a dark landscape of rugged, densely foliated hills and plunging valleys and passes minutes before was now alight with the business of combat.

Reduced artillery and rocket support from ASC and more distant RDF batteries continued to rain in horribly impressive flashes along the uneven topography. Each burst of light revealed more and more that the Zentraedi "probing" forces expected to be moving through the region was a far more significant element.

Satisfied to move before their discovery along the meandering but concealed floors of passes and valleys, the Zentraedi mecha were now demonstrating the ability to do what had been considered impossible by fanning out to negotiate the steep rise of hills- finding traversable paths and maintaining respectable forward movement.

By the integrated image enhancement provided by his Valkyrie, Kusunoki could see where some Regults, overzealous with the craze of the charge into battle would find poor or insufficient footing and tumble wildly back down the slopes of hills like the characters out of that popular children's limerick and often bowling down comrades in the process.

-But enough were finding sure purchase in their climb up impossibly steep hillsides to be nearing the crests in mass, and these were being followed by their less pioneering comrades and also by those capable of mounting follow-on attempts after an epic "Jack and Jill" tumble.

As the Zentraedi Regults reached hill summits all around the now-fortified town of Topia, the scene took on less of a benign, children's limerick air and looked more to Kusunoki like the nature documentaries he enjoyed as a child where seemingly impossible numbers of ants swarmed in a clamor over all in their path when angered into action.

Bad times were not _coming_ \- they were _here_.

-And with the limited ships under his command in his role as "top cover" support, there was little that Kusunoki could do about it. The hard-point stations on his Valkyrie's wings, like those of his squadron were loaded to capacity with Basilisks, Furies, and Asp missile pods- all suitable for both air-to-air and anti-mecha work-. But at best, were he to violate his operational orders and engage ground targets- even Takeo's best efforts would buy but a moment's relief for the ASC regiment below.

"Archangel, Petrel One-.", Kusunoki called to the RDF AWACS well east of the battle developing below, but charged with monitoring the airspace above it, " _Repeating_ my request for air support reinforcement. I have _eyes on_ hostiles well in excess of operational estimates-. Our friendlies are about to get _spanked_ in a _legendary_ fashion-. Over."

Archangel's response was immediate, and Kusunoki knew that a reply that quick was never a good sign.

"Request received, understood, and _denied,_ Takeo. No additional RDF air resources are available for the AO at this time. ASC fast-movers are inbound- thirty seconds out to your east. They're just going to have to manage. Over."

Kusunoki, watching as particle beam enfilade from Regult guns initiated and then began to stream from elevated positions atop the hill northeast of Topia into the town below upon ASC hover tanks whose positioning and training of guns had been established to meet the enemy from a specific avenue of approach. Initially unprepared, but far from stunned into impotence, the VHTs and their supporting fighting vehicles mounted a quick response and the Zentraedi enfilade became a slugging match exchange from both sides.

Regults were struck by ion bolts from VHT cannons that sent them tumbling, pierced cleanly through their center masses, back down the steep slope they had just ascended. Others, struck by surface-to-surface tactical missiles, or shot through critical power systems by ion bolts, simply exploded into gruesome scatterings of mechanical components and the butchered remains of their Zentraedi occupants.

Kusunoki could see damage being done broadly in Topia as well from the Zentraedi side of the exchange. As particle beams focused on identified ASC targets and stitched broadly areas that were likely thought to be concealments for mecha or support vehicles, dots of flame from the aged timber of civilian structures appeared. Quickly in the areas where the trade in weapons fire was heaviest the flames grew from isolated dots to towering plumes and sheets giving the valley town a lurid, underworld appearance.

From the east, as Archangel had advised Kusunoki, the dark shape of ASC-AF _fast-movers_ , FA-1B Spector multi-role fighters, swept in over the hilltops in four ship elements to strike at the Zentraedi most proximal to their earthbound comrades. The flicker of autocannon fire was joined with the zip of tracer round, rocket and missile burn on their approach to which the Zentraedi aggressors could be seen to lose Regults individually and in small clusters.

Surprised by the sudden appearance of this air cover, the aliens were only beginning to react and return fire wildly into the air when the Spectors screamed over at low altitude with malicious purpose.

Unseen in their release, ASC cluster bombs and plasma-napalm canisters carpeted the northeast slope of the hill most densely occupied by advancing Zentraedi with cataclysmic effect. The rapid-flash detonations of anti-mecha cluster bomb munitions that ravaged individual Regults as they advanced were dwarfed by the area-saturating, luminous bloom of plasma-napalm strikes that flashed momentarily green before exploding into the broad and brilliant orange wash of sun-hot flame that sublimated everything organic instantly, dissolved all metal forms almost as quickly, and rapidly heated rock and the rock components of soil into a molten state.

From two thousand meters above, there was still a noticeable chop to the air as the convectional updraft of battle began to disturb the otherwise stable air mass.

Kusunoki, still looking down on the blazes on the approach to and within Topia was amazed to see flights of the ASC's AJACS transformable attack choppers following the Spector strike so closely when at the distance his squadron was keeping focus had to be applied to control their Valkyries.

The immediate and fierce trade of fire between the AJACS and the surviving Regults, approaching the burning summit of the hill seemed to promise for a moment a stalemate of some kind. Fluid-like however, the rising numbers of Regults met the obstruction by finding the path of least resistance around it to maintain their general direction of flow.

"Petrel One, Archangel-. Tally-ho, Red Bandits, sixty plus, on the descent. Bull's eye zero-four-zero at two-twenty. Angels forty and descending. _Engage and destroy!_ "

The worsening plight of the ASC ground forces below was suddenly distant from Kusunoki's mind as he was offered trade in his profession by his C2 AWACS.

Shoveled to him in the lingo of fighter pilots and air-intercept controllers uniformly across the RDF and REF, Kusunoki was already scanning the skies northeast of Topia, his CAP's "bull's eye", for Gnerl "red bandits", descending on the attack from forty-thousand meters at arrange of 220 kilometers.

True to Archangel's report, a cluster of target indicator boxes appeared within Kusunoki's helmet visor as he gazed over the area. They were diving hard, but fanning out as they soon would have to begin a weaving, deceleration maneuver as they approached the denser air of the mid and lower atmosphere, and while numerically superior to Kusunoki's single Valkyrie squadron returned only a day before to full strength by orphans from other Valkyrie squadrons, the enemy was tactically vulnerable- for the moment.

"Archangel, Petrel One- give us an intercept vector.", Kusunoki replied, "-Who's up for a little pay-back?..."

All of the pilots in his now patchwork squadron were, Kusunoki was certain. For him, it would be the first installment for the _Hyperion_ and friends under his command whom he'd lost in the same instant.

It would be the first payment of _many_ installments…

Colonel Mejia spilled out of his converted command APC's rear hatch through a cloud of dense, smothering smoke and found that the outside air was little better. Of the eight staff and techs that crewed the command compartment with Mejia, Only three followed him out the rear hatch on their own feet, and two of those carried a fourth man despite wounds and burns received when the vehicle had taken a missile strike forward. The unconscious 2nd Lieutenant was bloodied and charred over his exposed skin and tattered uniform, and was the member of Mejia's staff sitting most forward in the compartment who had _not_ been killed outright.

Though his survival was far from certain, and bordering on unlikely, he was breathing- obligating the others to see to his safety and care as best as could be managed.

 _As best as could be managed_ was a relative term that suddenly applied to a multitude of concerns.

No complex array of integrated sensors, or extensive analysis of enemy movements was required to see what was happening and the direction the battle for Topia was taking. The hill forming the northern topographical border of the town still glowed along the crest and down its reverse face from where the ASC Air Force had laid down a thick carpet of plasma napalm to staunch the flow of Zentraedi into the town. By the same rapidly fading light, it was clear that the effort had been of only modest effectiveness and short-lived in addition. Solitary Regults and also those in reduced units scrambled over the hill summit, triumphant in the sheer act of surviving, and without ceremony began their fighting descent into the battle that was still building.

Mejia was in certain that in minutes the Zentraedi would be storming over the smoldering hill as though the air strike had never happened and would continue to do so until the next flight of attack aircraft arrived to repeat the attack.

It was the Zentraedi who had flanked right of Hill 1405 apparently and who were now cascading down the hill that created Topia's western border under cover from their own guns that concerned the colonel the most.

Cabello Company, or more accurately _what remained of it_ , was also collapsing back from The Topia Road into the heavy fighting that was consuming the north end of town. Far from finding sanctuary in Topia, these elements found themselves wading into the thickest of the fighting with the enemy still close on their heels.

As solid lines between ASC and Zentraedi dissolved to the north and west, it was easy for Mejia to imagine a Zentraedi officer or ranking NCO plotting at this very moment to open action on Mejia's right to further overwhelm him with the numbers that they could afford to throw into the fight.

Topia was lost.

Mejia knew this-. He had just not yet lost sufficient numbers in his depressed position to clinch it.

At the same time, Mejia knew, he was not cut off from escape and condemned to slaughter- yet.

Distasteful as retreat was, it was still preferable to annihilation in defense of a position whose significance had been negated the moment the movement and size of enemy forces through the region had been confirmed, and especially as they circumvented Topia- nullifying it as a blockage.

If he and his people were to die in this war, Mejia was determined that it would be for something grander than the claim that they had tried to hold Topia.

Three VHT Battloids were squared off against three times as many Regults less than two hundred meters from where Mejia and his surviving command staff covered behind the wreck of their vehicle. Outnumbered as they were the hover tankers opted for the greater speed and agility of their VHT-1s' Battloid mode, trading also the heavier punch of the tank's ion cannon for the rapid-fire qualities of the E-20 gun pods that each carried.

Actually pressing _forward_ into the Zentraedi attack, covering one another as best as they could against superior numbers, they waded into the fire of Regult particle beams that saturated their heavily armored hides.

Three Regults fell, one occupant only emerging from his downed machine, before the first Battloid folded under the intense punishment. The explosion resulting from a compromised Protoculture reactor nearly knocked the two surviving Battloids off their feet, but they recovered to continue the fight for what short time they had left.

"Order a covering retreat while we still have units left to pull out!", Mejia ordered loudly over the roar of the battle that was sweeping over the town.

As his communications officer began to carry out his order on a mere field radio, the level of sophistication that command and control of the 94th Composite Armored Regiment had been reduced to, Mejia saw the Regults who fought the two Battloids that had caught his attention reinforced and their numbers doubled.

With a single, frontal charge from the standing gun battle they had been participating in, the Regults literally overran the Battloids- knocking them to ground with ostrich-like kicks that laid the ASC mecha out prone.

The new arrivals to the skirmish continued on the advance into Topia as the Regults that had initiated the fight, identifiable by the damage they had received, gathered around the fallen Battloids to deliver death blows with their particle beam cannons at point-blank range.

Colonel Mejia saw the collapse of a nearby structure as an RDF Army Gen-1 Gladiator trudged through it toward the fight at labored pace that spoke of damage received elsewhere in the fight and unseen. It clutched a battered but functional GU-11 gun pod in its right arm, firing in short bursts as it advanced and shredding a Regult with each burst of 55mm shells.

It was as the Regults returned fire, now finished with the two Battloids that presumably the Gladiator had entered the fight in an attempt to save, that Mejia noticed the Gladiator was missing its left arm.

The wounded rushing to the aide of the slain….

This was the substance of battlefield legends that the survivors could never celebrate with the relish of those who only heard and repeated the tales.

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt advanced along the floor of the pass he'd awaken to find himself in, cautiously and outside of the path of unit after unit of Regults that charged by at nearly full attack speed. His guarded and deliberate movement was not driven by fear of combat, that by traffic on all of the communications bands seemed to be going at full force now- but rather by his desire to _reach_ the battle in a condition in which he could still participate in it.

He had awaken with his Regult half-buried in loose earth and stone at the base of a nearly sheer drop- neither his sensors nor his weapons functioning. The combat pod had struggled with the effort of righting itself and rising on legs and feet whose stability was adequate for a walking pace at best.

Tahlt counted himself fortunate in Fate's favor though, as his squad of Warriors Clote, Almit, and Geha he had left dead where he had come to consciousness.

Of the three, it was only Geha who had clearly been killed in the fall. Not by the fall itself, as a fall of some distance was survivable in a Regult given the proper use of the restraining harnesses- Tahlt was _living_ proof. No, it had been a large slab of stone that had joined Tahlt's squad in the plummet from above and crushed Geha's Regult beneath its weight at the fall's end that had ended the warrior.

Clote and Almit's circumstances of death had been less random- but clear. Their Regults had been crushed into near the same unrecognizable state as Geha's, only it was beneath the feet of other Regults who had followed on the charge to battle that they had reached that condition. Whether Clote and Almit had been alive at the time was uncertain.

It did not matter.

These turns in Fate's whim were expected to happen in battle.

Only to Tahlt, in the short distance he had covered in his damaged Regult as scores- _hundreds_ \- had charged by him within an arm's reach, it did not settle.

With each flutter in the step of his mecha, each threat of faltering as the world around him shook and thundered with the full charge of other Regults- he felt the panic of being trampled under. It was possible that this had been the terminal experience of Clote and Almit, and try as he did in focusing on the safe navigation of the valley floor, this was something that Tahlt just could not put out of mind.

Tahlt continued to concentrate on reaching open ground and thought ahead as to how he would find and rejoin his unit.

Another step by his Regult and the machine dropped slightly beneath him as a leg nearly failed, caught itself, and recovered.

Tahlt became aware of cold sweat on his face and the pounding of his own heart against his ribs as his breathing began to come labored.

Tahlt's head was now throbbing as his body continued to ache all over.

It was not this discomfort that the sub-lieutenant could not put out of his mind, but rather the burn of anger that rose with each crushed Regult he passed.

-And the anger's edge cut, he found, in a direction that he knew he dare not speak of.

Perhaps he too had been damaged in the fall?

Action General 1st Grade Hesthira stood atop a hill as the leading elements of his 9th Mechanized Corps' right flank continued to pass, making acceptable progress south through terrain that was more formidable than the micronian resistance scattered throughout it.

More slight in build and shorter in stature than his closest ranking command staff gathered about him, Hesthira did not carry with him the aura of a leader of Te'Dak Tohl Warriors.

In conduct of Duty, and over the course of that conduct Hesthira had recognized early and noted many an instance where that misperception of others had been a benefit to him.

Soil and rocks fell free of Hesthira's loose grasp as he rolled a handful of this alien world's substance between his palm and fingers- gaining a feel for it and the land through which his warriors now traversed. It was a habit that his staff had seen repeated in many campaigns on many worlds, and they accepted it as a small eccentricity that was part of a greater package.

"We are on schedule then?", Hesthira asked- knowing well the answer already.

"Ahead of schedule, Lord.", Action Commander Grom, his trusted functionary who saw to the implementing details of Hesthira's greater and often rapidly evolving plans.

Knowing also the manner in which his commander's mind worked, if not always the direction in which it would go, Grom added, "Barring a sudden reallocation of enemy forces, Lord- we should reach our operational initiation point at or before the appointed time. There is no indication that the micronians are in a position to make such a redirection of forces in the time available. It appears they still expect the main thrust to be coming from the north and with Action General Bren's corps."

"And correctly so.", Hesthira noted, "Jekketh has put the weight of an entire army behind Bren's spearhead. There is little the aliens can do to stop him, though they will try."

"Our participation at this juncture is strategically inconsequential. We are merely here to block, fix, and hold the micronians by the flank as Bren rolls over them."

"Hardly complementary of your known skills.", Action General 2nd Grade Naku, Hesthira's executive officer and tactical advisor was quick to point out- defending his commanding officer from the implied slight- as well as his self.

"Not complementary at all.", Hesthira agreed, "But Sub-General Jekketh and Bren are of the same type. Jekketh understands Bren and approves of his methods. He's a known variable."

"I suspect this means that you have other ideas beside holding the enemy's flank then, Lord?", Naku surmised, already knowing himself to be correct in his estimation.

"I plan on being at the enemy's center when Bren reaches it. _That_ is why Sub-General Jekketh has assigned me as he has with this element of the operation."

"This will not improve your standing with Bren.", Naku advised, "It could be another Kuhl-Nar Six Campaign over again."

"A cost that Jekketh is prepared for, no doubt-.", Hesthira speculated, "-And one he has the resources to afford. But, it may not come to that."

"No, possibly not.", Naku agreed knowing that there was no knowing what was not yet to be known.

Hesthira turned, dropping what soil remained from his hand before using both to place his helmet back on his head. He moved toward his Glaug Officer's Pod that squatted patiently in wait for his return, and in doing so indicated to his staff that they should be returning to theirs.

"There is much ground and peril between this point and that, Naku. Let us get there first."

"Agreed, Lord.", Naku said, and then suggested, "Since our movement has been discovered, shall I call for more robust air cover from the Fleet?"

"Not yet.", Hesthira said, mounting his mecha and settling into the familiar embrace of the cockpit, "They only know of our presence at this moment- likely not our size and thereby our function. Let Bren drape himself in threat and menace."

"Attention on him is attention away from us."

 **Brasilia**

"It doesn't look like much now, Captain, but walk with me for a sec and you'll see the potential.", Whilite said, justifying 511-Sul Station to his commanding officer as CP and base camp for Echo Company and for Naib Subedar Singh and his handful of Gurkhas for however long it was that Nguyen intended to stay in the Brasilia AO.

Admittedly, from the concrete rail bed that was only partially fitted out with footings to have its rails laid down the subway station did _not_ look like much in its unfinished state. To get to this lowest point of construction Whilite and Singh had had to first lead the other officers and senior NCOs belaying down the 60̊ slope of a broad concrete shaft that would have been 511-Sul Station's escalator access to street level had construction not been interrupted and halted. A similarly unfinished mezzanine then led down to the main platform level still strewn with vandal-toppled scaffolding and heaps of construction supplies too invaluable to steal but more than suitable for subjection to anarchists' whims as evident in their violated state.

Whilite could feel the skepticism in Nguyen, 1st Platoon's Lt Gifford, and Sergeant Major MacDonald whose opinion carried more sway perhaps than any other in the company with the CO. As he and Singh had quickly been won over by the dank shell of a subway station illuminated now only by flashlight that smelled of wet concrete, abandoned construction, and rat droppings- Whilite hoped to as quickly win over Nguyen.

"Storage.", Whilite said, abruptly identifying 511-Sul Station's first virtue that he planned to elaborate upon.

Shining his light up the line in the downtown direction, he used the beam to move his audience's attention toward the twin tunnel openings that had never seen the passage of a subway train.

"This station must have been intended as some kind of storage or staging area for trains on the line, because there are branches in the tunnels about thirty meters in from the end of the platform and sidetracks. _That_ end we're setting up as an ammo dump- and we're well on the way to stockpiling _tons_."

"What were you able to salvage from Homestead's storage?", Nguyen asked.

"What's your pleasure, sir?..", Whilite replied with intentional ambiguity, "Naib Subedar Singh was dead-on in his assessment – the dittos haven't touched anything-."

Sergeant Major MacDonald grunted bitterly, "Of course not-. Too damn busy taking the rest of the planet to care much about what's laying around a smashed FOB."

"8mm RDF caseless, pistol ammunition, rifle grenades, hand grenades, plastic explosives, anti-personnel mines, line-of-sight anti-tank rockets, mini-missiles, mortars-. Rambo's Candyland, Captain, and _it's all just for the taking_.", Whilite reported.

"For now.", Gifford observed, "So we should make it a priority to grab _mucho y rapido_ …"

"-And as important, if not more", added Singh, speaking unsolicited but without imposing himself unduly, "we are recovering the equipment needed to make this position operationally viable for some time. We have already secured portable generators, coms, C2 systems-. In twenty-four hours, we can be tied into theater command with the same functionality as the Homestead JOC."

" _If_ there is still a theater-level command structure.", Lt Hall of 2nd Platoon pointed out, "We could just as easily be on our own for a while."

"-If needs be.", Nguyen said with simple determination, "How are we set on provisions and supplies?"

Whilite continued, "Same-same for the time being as ammunition and weapons, sir- the only limitation we have right now is being able to move the stuff. I think the dittos either don't realize it's just lying around, or like Mac said, they just don't care. We've already got enough MREs moved to feed the company for a month, and enough medical supplies to start our own field hospital. Which brings me to my next point-."

Whilite's flashlight had dropped at arm's length to his side, but he now shone it in the opposite direction as before, down the line leading away from Brasilia's center and at the tunnel openings at that end of the platform.

"The tunnels in that direction also have sidetracks a little further in, which I recommend we use for storage of everything else. More importantly for us, there are niches of some kind- spaces off the main line that look like they were intended to be stood up as electrical or mechanical spaces- whatever it takes to make a subway system run. –But like the station itself, they were never finished. We can set them up as barracks, an infirmary, a CP- whatever we want. It's got plenty of space for everyone and all the toys we can carry off of Homestead. Once we get power, we can even make it cozy…"

"-Maybe set up a bar?", suggested Gifford to a few laughs in response.

"First we achieve something to celebrate, then we can talk about a bar.", Nguyen said, not outright dismissing the suggestion.

"This is a good position.", Captain Nguyen said without having seen the spaces that Whilite had just described, "We're concealed and the location is defendable with all avenues of approach easily monitored. It's also a quick and easy movement to the airport and the enemy LZ and staging area-."

The passive quiet of the Echo Company officers and NCOs turned uneasy at the mention of the airport that was well within sight when above ground and elevated over the visual obstruction of Brasilia's crumbling outer skyline.

Nguyen sensed this and addressed it bluntly, "I said we would be entering this war here. Did anyone misunderstand me? Does anyone have any objections?.."

"..No, sir.", Gifford said, volunteering to speak, "I just think we were expecting a lot of surveillance and intelligence gathering with some raids and ambushes in the mix. It sounds like you want to go after Ditto Base Brasilia-."

" _I do_ , Lieutenant.", Nguyen replied, "Perhaps you've forgotten, but to fight a war, one must go to where the enemy can be found."

"I haven't forgotten, sir.", Gifford replied, affirming his superior's thinking with his tone, "-It just kinda makes you feel like the flea looking at the whole hound- it's a lot to eat."

"We'll eat what we can.", Nguyen stated as a matter not up for discussion, "And remember, the little flea also served up The Black Plague."

4th Platoon's Lt Fenton said cheerfully, "Well, sir- I for one have always wanted to be compared to a global epidemic-. _I say_ _we do it_."

"We're going to do it.", Nguyen said, "Starting tonight-. Mac, I want you to assume command of the foraging and supply recovery details with the platoon sergeants. Identify critical supplies and hardware, and haul in as much as you can as quickly as you can. Be sure to get input from the medics- many supplies they're going to want on hand may be perishable and will need to be secured immediately."

"There will be a hard stop on this detail at 1800 tonight for mission briefing and gear-up. I want to be Oscar Tango Mike by 2100 and into the enemy ASAP thereafter."

"Yes, sir.", MacDonald replied.

Whilite motioned to the sergeant major and then down the tunnel whose layout he'd just been describing, "Sergeant Byerly is up that way, Top, and is overseeing the detail. She can bring you up to speed and show you the maintenance access point we've been using to move things down to tunnel level."

MacDonald shifted the weight of his combat rig and rifle as he motioned for the platoon sergeants in the officers' company to join him, "Thank you, sir. –We're on it."

Confident in the abilities of his senior NCO to continue establishment of base camp, Nguyen turned his attention to his officers and his command responsibilities.

"Now, let's talk about starting to hurt the enemy."

 **Medellin, Columbia**

Point Lieutenant Quen'Hoht took a last rearward glance at the light composite regiment whose charge he'd been given in anticipation of a new commanding officer. Word had come down to the Te'Dak Tohl officer that his superior would be arriving in the company of his _superior's_ _superior_ \- and that the regiment should be assembled for inspection and address.

Accordingly, infantry stood assembled in full battle gear grouped neatly by platoon as similarly Regult pilots stood beside their machines that squatted in wait to be mounted and deploy.

Quen'Hoht's Glaug was front and center to the rest of the company, waiting like the lesser Regults for its master who stood before it- waiting.

The waiting was almost over though.

The regiment had been overflown by an escorted shuttlecraft that was now making its final approach to land amongst the abandoned micronian facilities tied to the fields in which The Invid Flower of Life was growing in cultivated order.

Quen'Hoht was not certain of what was to come next, but knowing what he already knew, he suspected that he was not to like it.

How could he? His orders had subjugated him to a Tirolian- and not even a warrior.

Was this campaign not at its core about wresting the means from these aliens to free the Te'Dak Tohl from Robotech Master rule?

It was as puzzling as it was distasteful.

But Quen'Hoht had his orders- from a _Te'Dak Tohl_ superior.

The shuttle settled to ground with the delicate touch-down of an experienced pilot and as the engines powered down, the side hatch opened and the gangway extended without hesitation or ceremony.

The Tirolian, Darius, was quick to descend the gangway in the company of a dozen or more Zentraedi in micronized state.

All were clothed appropriately in uniform and badge of _norghil_ rank, though Quen'Hoht was unsure where they would have acquired the garb of warriors to fit their bodies scaled down to such a shameful size.

More disturbing was the fact that the norghil who followed Darius most closely while at the same time towering over him in comparative size wore the rank of sub-commander.

"Point Lieutenant- _eh?..._ ", the Tirolian said, addressing Quen'Hoht in perfect mastery of the Zentraedi dialect of Tirolian, but with a disquieting lack of respect in his apparent shortness of memory as it applied to retaining the names of those who could easily squash him.

"Quen'Hoht, _Citizen_ Darius-."

Recollection flashed across Darius's face, whether real or feigned, as he said, "Ah yes, that's right."

Motioning to the norghil on his heels, Darius continued, unperturbed, "This is my military chief for this operation and your new commanding officer, Sub-Commander Fral."

Quen'Hoht felt his breath catch inadvertently in his throat, removing the need to voice the protest it conveyed. The scowl that appeared on Fral's face said as much.

"You disapprove?", Darius asked, noting the obvious, "I'd say that I was sympathetic, but I actually don't care, Point-Lieutenant. I have a single concern for this farm, its facilities, and the many like it in this region. That is the resumption of operation and the production of viable Protoculture for use by the Te'Dak Tohl. Supreme General Krymina has granted me broad authority in execution of this task, answering only to her."

"Sub-Commander Fral, his staff in our company, and those whom he will be bringing on as it suits him are familiar with these _humans_ in a way that you and your warriors are not, and with an ease that I do not have time to allow you to acquire."

"I need these aliens to execute my assigned task, so I need Sub-Commander Fral's experience to facilitate it, and that makes you and your warriors his _subordinates._ –I suggest you find a way to deal with this perceived slight quickly, or to convince Supreme General Krymina that you are able to achieve my assignment without me."

For now, Quen'Hoht resigned to the immediately inescapable circumstances of his assignment.

For now.

"Your orders, and Sub-Commander Fral's will be obeyed dutifully by my Warriors, Citizen Darius."

Darius ushered Fral forward with a broad and dramatic sweeping motion of his arm.

"Your Te'Dak Tohl _subordinates_ , Fral."

Fral, as Darius had expected, spoke with less venom to his words and more of the order and authority that he had been accustomed to as a staff officer of the warrior caste and before he'd been subjected to the comparative social anarchy of this wretched, alien world.

The return nearer to normalcy seemed to be doing the officer well.

As was the synthesized approximation of the indigenous plant derivative to which Fral had become chemically dependent.

Fral would have to raise and keep himself up as it applied to the Zentraedi social order, and with the added challenge of maintaining status over the smug, perceived superiority of the Te'Dak Tohl unit that Krymina had assigned to support Darius- likely anticipating just the friction being seen.

Darius would manage Fral's biochemical needs- allowing the Zentraedi officer to _focus_ …

-And if needs be, would use it as masterful a leash as was required.

But for now, they two were of a single mind if not a single purpose.

"Warriors, sub-offices, and officers", Fral bellowed out at the top of his voice so that his words would be heard through the ranks now under his charge, "Shortly, transports will arrive with warriors of my selection who will accompany you on your first assignment under my command."

"The transports will take platoons out to a radius from this point equal to two days travel by the micronians on foot. Your assignment will be to sweep all paths of transit, all population concentrations- no matter how small-, all structures and all naturally occurring land forms that could afford shelter to the micronians."

"The micronians you find will be returned here where they will be categorized and divided into specialized and unskilled labor pools for the purpose of resuming the harvesting and processing of The Invid Flower of Life for Protoculture production."

"While out on the sweep and gather of micronians, you will defer to the situational direction of my warriors who will be embedded with your units. There is no doubt that you are capable warriors, but you are unfamiliar with the micronians and the intricacies of their society. Killing these aliens indiscriminately or without understanding of those social implications can have serious repercussions"

"For that reason, lethal force- _force beyond that required to gather and drive the micronians-_ is forbidden except in cases of defense with no alternative. Violation of this general order will carry _harsh_ consequences."

"Fall out for specific assignment by unit, and remember that the chain of events that will ensure meaningful victory in this campaign begins here, _today._ Dismissed!"

"That was quite impressive, Fral-.", Darius said with some genuine praise infused into the complement, "They may yet see themselves as fortunate in having you in command for this duty."

Fral, feeling his skin begin to itch already and the edge of the sickness whose remedy Darius now provided to him returning, replied through a forced mask of mastery and dominance, "They would kill us both this moment if the order to obey had not come through only a few steps from Supreme General Krymina herself."

Unconcerned, Darius replied with a sincere version of the expression feigned by Fral, "And they will continue to obey, Fral, so long as Supreme General Krymina is properly compelled."

"-And you feel you are capable of doing this?", Fral asked, incredulous of the sway held by a creature who even in his diminished state he could easily break.

"I _am_ doing _exactly that_ , Fral."

 **The Trendok 145 Robotech Factory, Deep Space**

The great machine in all of its components, systems, and subsystems maintained its routine despite the unsolicited and unnecessary presence of the sizable Zentraedi garrison aboard.

Had the Hypercomp main computer at the center of all of the Factory's billions of simultaneously occurring processes and activities been inclined to apply its regimented thought to the matter, it is possible that it would have found their being aboard to be agreeable as it involved systems and resources that were normally dormant to be monitored and regulated- thus increasing the Hypercomp's scope of responsibility and providing it more areas in which to perform as it always did- flawlessly.

But self-edification was not a vanity of the computer whose achievements were both impressive and many.

Sustaining the lives of the creatures who had been produced in Factories similar to the one that this Hypercomp administrated was just another set of sub-processes within processes to be run.

Sophisticated as it was, and separated from being true artificial intelligence only by the harnesses applied to it by its creators ages before, Hypercomp was still limited to the restrictions of input and output that yoked even the most advanced computers.

It was not aware of the flaws it had ingested through a simple, unthreatening transmission of valid format it had received properly encoded and over secure communications freqeuency.

Similarly Hypercomp was oblivious to the fact that it was spreading innumerable, calculated flaws through its production and storage facilities through the very routines designed to make these systems perfect.

It was unaware because of the carefully loomed veil that was a part of the degenerative and detrimental viruses that it had received in the guise of normal interactions with The Network, but crafted with great care and malice by creatures that Hypercomp had never encountered.

In ways both subtle and gross machines, mecha, munitions, hardware, software, and even information itself normally made unwaveringly reliable by Hypercomp began to corrupt- awaiting only circumstance to manifest.

Iago had gained access.

761


	10. The Plains of Hades

**Chapter Nine**

 **The Plains of Hades**

"This alien world crumbles swiftly before me, its defenses having proven to be little more than a thin, fragile shell of diluted Robotechnology and foolish courage."

"…And yet, where is Breetai?"

"Nowhere to be found. –And this puzzles me."

"The great warlord in his betrayal of The Robotech Masters dashed to pieces the renown and reverence reserved normally for a god. And now he abandons the new home and new allies he chose above his own people?"

"No, there is some greater cause for this."

"This match, this _contest_ between us was set in motion at the instant of my first drawn breath. I will not be cheated of it now. I will not be deceived so easily as to believe that he has resigned from Fate's calling with scarcely a shot fired."

"Breetai is in hurried preparation at this moment for an action that only he knows for certain, but it is certain that it must be _here_ if to be worth his efforts at all."

"I will therefore fix and destroy him where he conspires and plans with the micronians now on _my_ terms rather than wait to meet on his."

"There can be no rise without a fall. The Te'Dak Tohl cannot achieve ascent until Breetai and his alien allies have been cast down."

"My legend cannot crystalize until Breetai's is shattered. –And there is no glory in a victory over a shadow."

"Breetai will not rob me of the substance of this conquest."

"If he will not answer my challenge to battle, perhaps he will respond to this world's cries of suffering and distress..."

Supreme General Krymina

Commanding Officer, 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl

 **RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain**

The classroom lights were dimmed and the slats of the blinds turned to block the maximum amount of mid-morning sun possible.

In the context of the relentless training and "zero downtime" hustle that constituted "normal" for the officer/Veritech pilot candidates around and including Andy Johnson at Salamanca Base, this would have _normally_ been a perilous environment. Revisions to group study practices not having been conceived of until the night before, and the training squadron not having been afforded a single wink more of restful sleep than the previous nights- the group as a whole should have been primed to drift without warning into much needed slumber.

Every bloodshot eye was wide open though, and every mind focused in attention while still laboring under the strains of persistent training.

All attention hung on the images displayed by the classroom's hologram projector beside the instructor's podium and on the audio that was sometimes garbled and out of sync.

"-Let it in, Nuggets-.", Twig directed much in the way that the training sergeants at RTC Falkirk had ordered the recruit trainee platoon to remove their masks and inhale while undergoing a gas warfare exercise.

For his part, Andy Johnson had found the gas training exercise less distressing.

"-Let it in and get a good handle on it. _This_ is what _job opportunities_ look like to a fighter pilot-."

Rumors had been floating around the strictly information-controlled training areas of Salamanca since before first inspection that _things_ were starting to happen in places in North Africa, North America, India, and Asia whose precise geographic locations were even less familiar than their names. An officer/pilot candidate would share what he had heard from another candidate in another training squadron who had heard from an enlisted type coming on duty that the RDF and ASC were getting a footing to lock horns with Zentraedi forces that had made planetfall in their sector…

Whispers from the other side of the serving line in the mess hall at breakfast had provided more bits and pieces of information which accumulated only to great gaps of the unknown rather than a fuller picture of what was taking place across the oceans and great expanses of land..

-Only the looks of mess staff upon the candidates told volumes.

Their glances were those of the knowing upon the condemned, and the servers had performed their duties with earnest attention to detail and precision as though the meals being portioned onto plates were to be the last that the candidates were to consume.

Or perhaps this was just the way it had felt to Andy.

The Salamanca mess staff, a large portion of them contracted civilians, had likely had some exposure to the news and images coming out of Mexico that the officer/pilot candidates were now seeing. Repeated re-runs of looped video images of military movement and activity taken at distance was the bulk of what was offered. More sound and fury than meaningful substance was what Andy now recognized it to be with his indoctrination into the military disciplines and mindset- fodder for civilian minds devoid of intellectual nutritional value courtesy of United Earth News Network who by some miracle of civilian telecommunications was still broadcasting on some channels.

The running commentary, rapid and occasionally garbled by flutters in the transmission and relay of signals was likely by a reporter with the Mexico affiliate of UENN and delivered in perfect Spanish. Knowing only enough of the language to exchange basic information, trade pleasantries, and perform simple tasks- the reporter's clearly off-the-cuff monologue was of little value to Andy. The translation by another UENN affiliate into _Portuguese_ that was choppy and lagging the Spanish was of less use.

The oration of journalists was something of a white noise soundtrack to the video which told all that needed to be known in the grainy, milky green hue of the night vision images it showed.

An arid landscape of scrubby, desert plants and grasses spread out before the camera toward a horizon on which a great tempest had seemed to have fallen to earth. Boiling clouds alight with the ceaseless flash of explosions and lesser zip of energy weapon and tracer fire churned in the distance, rolling relentlessly toward the camera like a hellish juggernaut loosed on mortals by Mars the war-god. Mecha and vehicles of human design could be seen advancing urgently into the churning storm, met at all points by particle beam and missile fire from unseen Zentraedi who lurked in concealment within.

With the constant rumble of explosions and the crackling of ceaseless weapons fire softened only slightly by the distance at which the UENN microphone was capturing the sounds, the atmosphere and environment were made complete.

It was as though Dante had abandoned the lyric poem to paint his visions of the Underworld in surreal, living landscapes.

"We're not training you to _deal_ with combat…", Twig said without warning from somewhere at the back of the classroom. –Or perhaps he had been talking all along and Andy had been too engrossed in the orgy of violence on display to notice.

"We're training you so you can take combat to the enemy and make him _your bitch._ "

The veteran pilot and less than traditional teacher had now taken up a place at the side of the classroom, leaning against the wall and watching the images on the hologram screen with the mild interest of one who had seen similar events significantly closer.

"We can teach you the skills, but you need to bring the fire in your belly. You need to be able to summon, channel and control the _aggression_ to use it."

"Will you be ready?", Twig asked rhetorically, pausing to light a cigarette in full view of the room's _No Smoking_ sign.

"Who knows?.."

The quasi challenge and pep-talk continued as the smoke form the instructor's cigarette was joined by that of those candidates who had taken Twig's example as indication to light up as well.

" _If_ you earn your wings, you'll have received the finest training ever developed, but I can't tell you whether you're ready or not. That one _you'll_ have to answer.

"We try to break you now so you won't break _out there._ So look close and let it in."

"If you don't think you can hack it- walk away now. _Out there_ is the wrong place and time to figure out that you ain't got the chops to be a Veritech pilot."

 _Out there._

The reality that Howard was _out there_ hit Andy at once and with a forcefulness that caused him to actually start in his seat. He had of course known before that as an RDF-Army officer in command of a mecha unit that Howard would see combat at some point in this war.

-But knowing it at the time that Andy had made the conscious effort to try to come to terms with that fact was not _knowing it_ the way he suddenly found himself knowing it- _feeling it_ \- now.

Cold sweat and a sudden tightness in his chest accompanied the intertwined sensations of shame at so casually having presumed to accept the real, mortal danger that his surviving older brother had volunteered to stand up and face, and the panic that Howard was beyond his ability to help.

Andy also understood now Howard's initial, incensed reaction, that now seemed an eternity ago, at discovering his younger brother's interest in enlistment into the Service that had become the centerpiece of his life and what had claimed through simple accident the life of the eldest Johnson brother, Dexter Jr.

It came home to Andy now, not just striking him but bludgeoning him like a vicious beating of the soul with the shame of not seeing and understanding it clearly before.

-And soon all those who he'd come to know at RTC 32 Falkirk would be _out there_ too.

Cedric, and Aunt Moggie, and Pamela… _Yes, Pamela too_ … _Out there._

With the information trickling down to the officer/pilot candidates about the breadth and scope of the Zentraedi attack and invasion, Andy's horror- _true horror_ \- deepened to wonder whether there was a place on Earth that soon _wouldn't_ be _out there._

Egerton?.. _Home?..._

With a surge of flaming hate for what he knew he'd done, Andy fixed his eyes on Twig who was leaned still against the side wall of the classroom studying the Nuggets for the effect of his words.

They had not been words intended to inspire introspection so much to achieve a desired ends. –And they had.

It wasn't a question of whether the Nuggets had the courage and determination to be _out there_.

It was a question of who had the courage to openly decline the challenge…

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

"Fleet Intelligence says that the spacefold activity out of the Sol system has dropped to what can be considered a _nominal operational rate_.". Lieutenant Commander Mitchell Petersen advised the CO, summing the contents of a two-page report in a few sentences, "-And that a significant reduction in combat units can be expected in the area. What a _significant reduction_ is supposed to translate to in the _actual numbers_ of Zentraedi warships on station is though- Intelligence isn't saying. Just _less._ "

Commander Devereaux, sitting across from her XO at her desk in her day cabin shook her head with a grin, saying in response, "-Doesn't really matter how many. Even if they've sortied an absurd number of vessels from the system, they'll still outnumber us fifty- _a hundred_ to one?.. Don't sweat those kinds of details, Pete- you'll just give yourself an ulcer. The odds were never going to be even. Hit and run-. That's the game plan, and it's one we're good at."

"We better be.", Petersen agreed, pulling a cigarette out of the gold case that had been an anniversary gift from his wife some years before and lighting it to go with his second cup of coffee that sat atop the CO's desk, "A hundred to one favoring the bad guys takes a little fancy footwork to offset."

"Whether it's the possibility of being killed one on one or a hundred on one, it doesn't make a difference.", Devereaux said finishing her own cigarette and rubbing out the butt in the recently emptied ashtray, "The important part is concentrating on the fancy footwork to keep from _getting killed_."

Petersen reclined slightly in his chair, arching his back until his spine cracked. It had been a long, high tempo day of innumerable tasks that was not yet over, but a moment's downtime for professional speculation would not interfere with the overall preparations going on all about the _Gordon P. Samuels_.

"-Still, you have to wonder where they're all hurried off to in such a hurry. There's virtually no chance that they've discovered where Walhalla and the Fleet are sheltering, and chances are only slightly better that they're gonna find `em with even the best search methodology. –I just can't figure it, and it bugs me I guess."

"Don't sweat it, Pete.", Devereaux repeated, "I don't care where they're going. I really don't. Just as long as I know where they're _not_ gonna be, and that they don't show up again while we're engaged. The Zentraedi units on station at Sol are our concern, those who jumped off in a hurry are someone else's."

"That's pretty icy there, Skipper.", Petersen said, interrupting drags on his cigarette with a swallow of coffee.

"Icy is the mode we live in, Pete.", Devereaux replied, "Or _me_ at least. I need you for the fire under the asses of the crew. How's the roasting going?"

"Medium, passing into medium-well right now.", Petersen said, understanding the shift in conversational topics, "I haven't had to stoke the ashes much though- the crew's got themselves hopping. They're running themselves cross-eyed with checks and preparation. I'm more management than motivation today."

Devereaux reached for her pack of cigarettes and then considered the number she had smoked already in the past several hours and thought better of it.

"-Well, that's fine and good, but between you and me for right now, I want to run a battle stations drill in six hours or so. Let the crew wear themselves down a little more, and then see how smartly they hop to."

"Fair enough.", Petersen agreed, "They'll hate us a little, but shame on them if they don't expect it to be coming."

"They'll hate us more for the _second_ drill, two hours later.", Deveraux predicted.

Petersen laughed, "Yeah, _that one_ they might not see coming."

"It'll keep them occupied though.", Devereaux said, "It'll keep their minds on doing their jobs and off of what we're getting ready to do. I'll take them hating me a little over them getting scared."

"You're the skipper, Skipper.", Petersen conceded, "I just crack the whip."

Devereaux thought forward a little further and then ordered in the form of suggestion, "We'll rest a spell after that-. Suspend all non-essential duty activities for a watch or two- and talk to the mess about cooking up something special. That should give us time to decompress a little and still get our game faces on before we arrive at Sol."

"It should.", Petersen agreed.

"Enough about the carrot then.", Devereaux said, not drifting far from the abundance of details that still required her attention, "Dig out the latest division readiness assessments, will you?.."

 _ **Artoc**_

"Did your Serhot Ran not just _return_ from assignment?"

Action Commander Kevtok found nothing ambiguous in the question itself, but having known Caldettas for some time he also knew that the real question being asked was not the question being voiced.

With Caldettas though, the best way through the tangle of clever snares of indirect interrogation was the path that _he_ provided. Frequently it involved springing the snares rather than futile attempts at circumventing them. Kevtok had knowingly walked into ambushes before, and there was the highest probability that he would survive this as well- though be it slightly more annoyed than when he'd gained audience to the 7th Grand Army's executive officer.

"You know that my Warriors and I have, my Lord."

Caldettas nodded, acknowledging his awareness of this as he led the junior officer in a slow, meandering circuit of the flagship's command deck and the numerous stations distributed across it. Officers, familiar with Caldettas and comfortable with his presence moved from his path nonetheless- automatically as though his proximity had triggered an automatic reaction. It was not a fear response in the least, but manifestation of a working relationship in which the subordinates knew that the superior could and _would_ most likely glean what he wanted or needed to know from their particular division in passing observation of the station and its activities.

Anything Caldettas wanted to know and could not surmise, he would ask.

"I do.", Caldettas confirmed finally, "Perhaps it is just a defect in my own Warrior's Core that I do not understand the Serhot Ran's eagerness to grapple with more than what Fate puts before them. Haven't you enough scars to be content?"

"Scars are only shadows of the acts that earned them, Lord.", Kevtok replied, "I seek the substantial act, not the bragging right of the marks that result from them."

Caldettas paused, intentionally Kevtok had no doubt, amongst the stations associated most directly with the monitoring and control of ground operations. Before the two officers, the details of eight different battles being fought at various points on the alien planet were represented in hologram for cold analysis and direction.

"I have no scars, Kevtok-. I'm as unblemished as the day of my Awakening. –In your estimation, does this make me less of a Warrior?"

Kevtok's response was immediate, but measured to not come across as rushed and sounding insincere in doing so.

"No, of course not, Lord. Some Warriors are touched by Fate's favor more than others."

True sincerity would have been for Kevtok to say that he had no opinion in the matter and even less interest.

"-But you said that scars are the shadows of our deeds…"

"And not all deeds leave visible marks.", Kevtok countered, growing tired of the verbal dueling in progress, "You seem to have done well in your _unblemished_ ascent."

"I have no argument with that statement.", Caldettas agreed, "I have."

Sub-General Caldettas observed all of the action displayed before him- looking through it without dedicating interest to any of the particular battles or its details.

"-And as a reward, I _influence_ Fate to a limited degree. Look at this, Kevtok. Fate is passing judgment and assigning paths to _hundreds of thousands_ at this very moment- _more_ even than that- and _I_ have my hand in all of that. –Not so much as Supreme General Krymina, of course- but in my way…."

"Lord, I don't believe that I'm grasping the point that you are trying to make.", Kevtok said, feigning patience but not wanting to draw out the process of getting to wherever Caldettas was taking him any longer than was needed.

"No, Kevtok, you _repeatedly_ fail to grasp the point.", Caldettas chided, "You were offered the opportunity for self-direction, and you _declined._ "

Kevtok's response to what he had considered a closed matter was instant, and not as well measured as recent responses, "The role of an action general does not suit me, Lord-. I best perform in Duty by-."

Caldettas cut Kevtok off, shortly, and with a degree of venom that the action commander was unaccustomed to from the senior officer.

" _You perform Duty best through obedience, Kevtok_ …. Supreme General Krymina bestowed a great honor upon you for your Service, and you threw it back in her face for all to see."

"That was neither my intention, Lord, nor my recollection of the event."

"Your _intentions_ are irrelevant, Kevtok-. Your refusal said that your opinion outweighed Supreme General Krymina's in determining how best you would serve her in _her_ army. –Show me the scar whereby you acquired _that_ wisdom."

Kevtok fought to bury the burn of the chastising he was receiving and to mask the reaction from those around him who were working equally hard or harder to appear oblivious to the reprimand.

"Again, Lord- it was not my intention."

"Consider it an _unintended consequence_ then, Kevtok.", Caldettas said flatly, "You could have negotiated your will with Fate, but instead you have to come to _me_ to borrow my influence."

"I am eager as always to serve, Lord."

With little more consideration than that which he applied to selecting a meal option at the nutrient dispenser, Caldettas said, "You wish combat for your Warriors, Kevtok?- Combat you shall have. There is an abundance of it to be had presently. I will transfer your unit to Jekketh's command, and he may determine how best to assign you."

"Jekketh?"

"Indeed.", Caldettas affirmed, "When we fail to assume responsibility for our own course, Action Commander, we cede the privilege to others."

"And this is Supreme General Krymina's will?", Kevtok asked.

"No.", Caldettas replied, "This is _mine._ Supreme General Krymina has grown too fond of you to always apply the proper discipline that even you sometimes require. I am not so taken with you."

Kevtok put his fist to his chest in salute and bowed his head, "Then I will perform my Duty per your will, Lord."

"You are dismissed, Action Commander.", Caldettas said.

Kevtok began to withdraw from the command center and the quick glances of other Warriors at a governed pace.

"-And Kevtok-."

The action commander paused dutifully, "Lord?"

"I will be observant of mission opportunities more befitting of Serhot Ran, though I doubt they will arise _quickly_.", Caldettas said to Kevtok, "In the meantime however, may the scars you acquire be worthwhile and telling of the acts that earned them…"

 **Santiago Papasquiaro, Mexico**

 _Technology_ through communications and information sharing provided _advantage_ in the command and control realm to the Robotech Defense Forces.

 _Robotechnology_ merged with resident human technologies yielded amazing syntheses unique to Earth such as the Veritech family of transformable combat platforms that provided a _tactical edge_.

-But _advantage_ and _tactical edge_ did not do the _work_ of winning battles.

Whether it had been heavy horse on medieval fields, the first steel beasts lumbering across No Man's Land, or the rapid and aggressive movements of the first _blitzkrieg_ and every modified incarnation since- it was _armor_ and the men commanding it that had dictated the course and tide of battle.

As it applied to ground warfare, Robotechnology had changed little in this area.

It had only modified the _forms_.

 _Heavy always brings the pain._

The unofficial mantra of the RDF Destroid Corps was an unadorned, unapologetic statement of that belief.

Major Gerald Gunston III, 9th Mecha Armor Division, 77th Regiment, "Berserker" Company was an officer who understood the credo well and who had dedicated much effort in training and exercise to exemplify it- not only in his performance but in that of his company.

Beyond the natural motivation of wanting to _survive_ combat when it came, it was perhaps a subconscious attempt by a man whose background and outward appearance was anything but that of a "Destroid Driver" to overcome any stigmas that may have come attached to him that drove Gunston so relentlessly.

Son of CPA parents, highly successful and respected in their own right within the field of accountancy, and grandson to his namesake who had established an admirable family fortune through lumber wholesale- Gunston did not spring from a steeped military lineage.

A slight and wiry boy at best whose contributions to youth and school sports teams through his graduation from high school were best characterized as "demonstrations of enthusiasm", Gunston had not developed into the physical specimen often associated with the ideal of the "fighting man" either.

-But armor _\- mecha-_ was the great equalizer, translating enthusiasm and acquired skill into brute force in a way that protein shakes and countless, futile hours at the gym never had.

Certainly, Gunston had heard whispers and direct accusations made to him that the Destroid was his means of _compensating_ \- giving him weight, finally, to throw around.

Major Gerald Gunston III accepted this, embracing the rather large kernel of truth at the accusation's malicious center, knowing without apology that to some degree it was true.

-But at the end of the day, he _did_ have weight to throw around now.

 _Tons_ of it.

The Gen-1, Mk II Gladiator though being succeeded in the inventory by the smaller, faster series of Generation-2 Destroids whose design had been approved with the presumption that the next great threat would be that of The Invid was not _surpassed_ in Gunston's mind by any measure.

Having undergone numerous systems upgrades since the first lots of the anthropomorphic mecha had come off the production line, the Gladiator Mk II was every bit as mission capable as its smaller namesake.

-And as or more importantly in Gunston's mind, still more than capable of _bringing the pain._

Santiago Papasquiaro, like many towns and small cities in the path of the Zentraedi advance, had endured ample pain already through the early morning hours.

The enemy line had pushed the token, ASC defenders from their positions and had rolled over the well-established city of low-rise, mostly Spanish-style buildings and dwellings as easily and quickly as it had the parched and open landscape that Santiago Papasquiaro punctuated.

ASC reinforcements rushed in for the sake of holding a point on the map while civilians continued to _evacuate_ and had managed to wrest the city free of the Zentraedi's grip for a short time before _Zentraedi_ reinforcements had shown up and similarly hurled the ASC back beyond the city limits.

A subsequent _back-and-forth_ action spanning six hours had razed substantial portions of the city and reduced its most prominent fixtures to unrecognizable rubble beneath the feet of grappling mecha forces.

When Gunston had initially seen Santiago Papasquiaro at first light and at a distance of just under ten kilometers it had been little more than a fiery, glowing base to a smoke-stained portion of lightening sky. In many respects, it had been perfect in its appearance- seeming to be the headwaters of the stream of refugees choking the Highway 23, southbound.

Gunston had done his best to ignore the human flood on Highway 23, failing periodically for want of something to get his blood up for the fight. –But sights like the burned out school bus, ruptured and peeled open down to the chassis like a wild flower of the infernal regions somehow caught him off-guard in their suggestions of tragedy.

On more than one occasion, after it was too late for Gunston to avoid such sights, he was at least vocal of warning those under his comman.

Some sights had been harder to ignore than others as they were not evidence of tragedy, but rather promises of tragic episodes to come.

At points too numerous to want to count, small groups that often included the very young or very old moved at an agonizingly slow pace south on 23. The more able, be they in their prime or simply less physically inadequate then their companions, bore the burden of whatever belongings had been gathered in the rush of the exodus and were invariably showing signs of faltering.

In each instance of the same story a broken-down vehicle that seemed unworthy of trips across town but that had been pressed into more urgent service were found standing on the shoulder of the road with doors and trunk lids left open with the rush of their owners' escape.

The military, ASC and RDF, was not heartless to these episodes of helplessness. Supply trucks returning from drops of supplies at forward staging and resupply areas had been seen stopping to pick up individuals and small groups where the occasion lent itself. They had also been seen to pass groups moving along the shoulder of the highway or just off-road as quickly and without hesitation when conditions were unfavorable. Desperate people in mass could be as dangerous sometimes as the enemy, and supply trucks were a highly valuable asset at the moment and far too important to risk if there was even the slightest question of risk to their continued operation.

A lifeboat at sea was useless if it was swamped with the struggles of the drowning to survive.

"We're going the wrong way to help anyway, Berserkers.", Gunston said over the common frequency. As the company had left Highway 23 for open ground per the unit movement plan to break west, the major had caught a glimpse of bodies quickly and sloppily hidden beneath scrub brush near the roadside.

His drivers did not need to see this, because Gunston knew at once what it was.

A report from the ASC Global Military Police had found its way into the movement portion of Berserker Company's operational brief stating that organized crime at both the street gang and _cartel_ levels had been making a blatant grab at anything with four wheels and a running motor in the population centers ahead of the Zentraedi advance and selling them to the highest, cash-only bidders.

Through The Dark Time and the years following The Zentraedi Holocaust, organized crime had been the only business structure that had continued without major disruption- a disquieting testimony to its members' resourcefulness and human nature in general. It had even been rumored that tattered law enforcement at both the UE and independent state levels had intentionally assumed a limited "hands-off" policy as the illegal trade and distribution networks had often been more viable and efficient than anything that broken governments had been able to pull together for destitute populations in need of food and basic commodities.

Reining in these elements as _civilization_ had returned had proven to be a challenge - but the GMP in this region of the world was nothing if not firm in the imposing of order.

-Even if Law had to be _tarnished_ somewhat in its imposition.

Summary execution of disreputable elements of the citizenry had been known to have taken place during The Dark Times- and even since, and when serving a _higher good_ had been swept swiftly beneath the rug of conscience. So it seemed was happening again in the short life of Earth's latest crisis.

Whether the bodies left for the buzzards had been innocents slain by the criminal elements for property, or the criminal elements themselves- these would be, and already were, being written off as _collateral losses_ to operations.

The GMP had warned of highwaymen from all echelons of the criminal world actively operating in the area- though their efforts had been mostly focused on civilians with only one or two reports of brazen attempts to seize vehicles and equipment from military "soft units".

Major Gunston knew that Berserker Company and its attached AA and medium-assault mecha units would encounter no interference from such opportunistic bottom-feeders.

-But seeing indications along the roadsides where these predators may had taken civilians made Gunston _wish_ that they might try.

Realistically, a Mk II Gladiator rigged with heavy combat load was far too daunting for even the most brazen street hood to dare dream of challenging. –But Berserker Company had not been dispatched to Santiago Papasquiaro with the intent of engaging street criminals. The company's primary purpose had not even been to drive the remaining Zentraedi from the city whose pendulum of occupancy was swinging again towards the human kind.

Early civilian reports of Zentraedi units striking at isolated population pockets along the valleys and passes of the Sierra Madre had warranted investigation, chiefly by the ASC Army, and that investigation had revealed a genuine threat whose magnitude was not civilian exaggeration as had been initially thought.

The Zentraedi landings in both North America and South America had been far too numerous, great in scale, and broadly dispersed to accurately assess without benefit of the military surveillance satellite constellation that had been destroyed in the hours preceding first hostile planetfall. Division-sized units had simply come to ground and melted without a trace into the regional landscapes.

ASC and RDF UAVs assets had been stretched to their absolute limits and had only within the past twelve hours been supplemented by RDF-AF JSTARS- their combined efforts providing what were at best snapshots of a fluid and rapidly changing theater of operations. In this stunned and myopic condition, it was nothing less than shocking for the Terran forces as they had discovered late in the movement what previously had been deemed impossible.

A substantial Zentraedi force had moved in mass through the rugged mountain terrain that ran parallel with the Mexican Pacific Coast.

Berserker Company was part of the panic reaction to dam the flow of Zentraedi from the mountains while it was still a trickle. The orders of the 77th Regiment and its nine companies including the Berserkers, to seize, stabilize, and hold Santiago Papasquiaro as a position and prevent a flow of Zentraedi into the left flank of the Terran forces farther east

The JSTARS, "Oden", now surveilling the northwest quadrant of the Durango AO to include the major avenues of approach through the mountains and passes of the Sierra Madre was providing a partial but disturbing picture of what that would entail if the city were not secured now.

Presently Oden was tracking the bulk of two Zentraedi light assault companies sweeping through Santiago Papasquiaro from the northwest and approaching its center in loose lines of squad-sized units. Two heavy assault Regult companies, also mostly intact, and an additional light assault company moved by the city's western limits with the clear options of either being able to move in on the city center as the swinging line of a pincer movement should undetected resistance be discovered, or to meet the two sweeping companies as they exited the city to perform whatever task their command had planned for them next.

With air strikes by ASC-AF and RDF-AF attack squadrons at a frenzy not twenty kilometers distant in the mountain passes, it was evident to Major Gunston that the Zentraedi combing Santiago Papasquiaro were there to dislodge the very type of fortification effort that 77th Regiment was intending to provide.

The match was now set.

"Berserker One and Hercules One, Seven-Seven Alpha-.", came the call to Gunston and his "Hercules" Company counterpart, Major Hughes from Regimental Command, "Assume spearhead positions and advance main objective center- reference point Cantina-. Engage and clear all hostiles encountered. You have tactical authority for this action. Be advised of Cherokee Company MBPs moving up by your left for flank support. Arty is dialing in and an air strike is inbound at this time to clear hostiles from the vicinity of reference point Francisco. Over."

"Seven-Seven Alpha, Hercules One-. Roger that.", Hughes affirmed from his company's advancing position slightly rear and to the right of Gunston's Berserkers.

"Seven-Seven Alpha, Berserker One- Roger."

The objective reference point "Cantina" had been visible as a navigational icon in Gunston's integrated helmet display system all along, but with the orders of 77 Alpha, it now had a greater significance. Consulting his Gladiator's central MFD, Gunston understood instantly that Colonel Neary was hurling Berserker and Hercules Companies headlong into the Zentraedi units of roughly the same strength now moving relatively south through Santiago Papasquiaro- an even match _only_ in numbers.

"Thick skinned" with heavy armor by mecha standards already, 77th Regiment's Gladiators had been equipped with a heavy combat rig for this assignment in anticipation of direct and intense contact with superior enemy numbers. Armor applique plates had been affixed over critical areas of the main body and limbs to fortify them, while shoulder-mounted missile pods and a 1,200-round ammunition pack to belt-feed the Destroid's GU-11 gun pod increased the mecha's weight by 35% and slowed it proportionately- but there was no argument as to the benefits they provided in combat.

Neither Gunston nor any Destroid Driver worth his salt believed however that the addition of armor and weapons to a Gen-1 Gladiator made it invincible. Zentraedi Regults, comparatively lightly armed and armored as they were also had the ability to do incredible things on open ground in even small numbers with experienced warriors at the controls. Moving south by the western outskirts of the city as was the heavy assault unit that Berserker and Hercules Companies would have to engage was, the potential for the Battle Pods to break out into the open was there. Approaching the reference point named for this mission as "Francisco"- they still moved n column and presented the opportunity to be dealt with in mass.

A quickly-established fire base and the RDF-AF were to see to that.

Eight kilometers distant in the rising light of dawn, a localized portion of the northern horizon, west of Santiago Papasquiaro, began to pulse rapidly with the flash of arriving artillery shells.

Too distant to be felt or heard through the sound and shock insulated hide and pilot's compartment of the Gladiator, Major Gunston was still not fooled into thinking that the Zentraedi approaching Reference Point Francisco were experiencing anything less than hell falling unexpectedly upon them.

Served them right.

The clustered bursts of light continued in the localized area of Francisco for several more seconds before halting as suddenly as the artillery strike had begun.

In the pause that followed only a growing mass of smoke that continued to rise from that localized area differentiated Francisco from any other portion of the horizon.

"Seahawk Flight, Werewolf One-. Airspace secure over target area and Merlin has the blinders on-.", reported Lt Col Neil "Dingo" Duggan from the cockpit of a Valkyrie "borrowed" for the combat sortie from a subordinate in the 1017th Werewolves, "Bring in your ships."

"Roger that, Werewolf One- Seahawk Flight is inbound. Twenty seconds to target area."

From 5,000 meters above the contested city, the Zentraedi contenders moving along the northwest borders and out of the scene of an artillery strike that had just subsided were at best unimpressive, appearing to the naked eye as little more than lines of grey dots- cohesive only in the direction they moved. Armed with multi-purpose medium and short range ordinance, Duggan's squadron of Valkyries could have easily dispatched much of what remained of the two Zentraedi heavy assault companies themselves- had that been their assignment.

Flying "top cover" as the Werewolves were, their eyes and focus of aggression was to be on the skies- barring a dire change in the mission's support requirements. As it was now though, the skies above this particular parcel of urbanized scrubland was devoid of an air threat to either the RDF-Army Destroids approaching from the southeast, or their combined RDF-AF and ASC-AF air support moving in from due east.

If either the yet untouched Zentraedi companies within and moving by a dispersed line through Santiago Papasquiaro, or their throttled and reduced right flank guards were aware of the Valkyries orbiting lazily overhead- it was unclear. By the specialized equipment of the sole EA-9D Adventurer II EW/ES variant, "Merlin" and the applied training of its crew, neither the standard nor missile-bearing models of the earthbound Regults were able to direct their weapons in a significant way through the screen of EM noise broadcast by the EA-9D.

With defense from air threats provided by the Valkyries and from surface-to-air fire provided from Merlin it was the responsibility of the flight of four A-9C Adventurer IIs – cousins in most respect to Merlin- to perform the heavy air-to-ground work.

Duggan watched as the Seahawk Squadron flight approached, having separated now into two, loose, two-ship elements. Laden heavily with air-to-ground ordinance- nearly to the point of comical appearance, though still within their maximum operational weight- the aircraft closed on their targets to just within the optimal engagement range before initiating their attack.

Vapor trails from ambient moisture in the air compressed into steam followed briefly as a dozen or more MAPM-7 Basilisks separated from the leading ships and raced, self-guided now, to targets that had been assigned by the attacking Adventurers' WSOs. The same weapons as those by Duggan's Valkyries in fewer numbers, the Seahawks were using them to engage the earthbound Regults- a function that they were equally suited for by design as engaging aircraft or flight-capable mecha.

Blinded, or with reduced sensor vision courtesy of Merlin- it was unclear from five kilometers above and nearly ten away whether the heavy assault Regults moving along the edge of the town were even aware of the threat before the first Basilisks struck their targets with impressive lethality- appearing to the RDF air crews as sparks of orange that were quickly lost in puffs of billowy off-white.

Warrior 2nd Grade Fihrgua bounced about the interior of his Heavy Artillery Regult to the sounds of a warning alarm as the top-mounted missile launcher that he had yet to fire in actual operations in this campaign absorbed the brunt of the damage that would have literally come down upon his head otherwise.

Fihrgua's platoon had been out from under the sudden storm of insanely obsolete micronian free-falling projectiles for only seconds. Survivors of the indirect projectile fire, numbering perhaps half of those who had been moving into battle before, had only managed to assure themselves that they had survived before sensor systems had begun to wail warning of inbound and tracking missiles.

Fihrgua had scarcely heard the first warning when he had glimpsed a blur of motion that had preceded the obliteration of his sub-lieutenant's Heavy Artillery Regult twenty paces ahead and four aside in combat advance formation. It had only been a glimpse, a _hint_ of the danger, before the bulbous, main body of the Regult had shattered into all directions- throwing its top-mounted missile pod skyward and either leg out and away from the center of the blast.

It had been a moment later as the natural numb of shock at the sight had begun to thaw from Fihrgua with the accelerated tempo of combat that the heavy blow had been landed atop his own Regult- causing him to cry out sharply with the fear of following his squad leader into oblivion.

It had not been the end though.

His Regult had staggered slightly under the dropping of a significant weight upon it- his sub-lieutenant's missile pod that had vanished skyward. Following, and by the nature of the warning tone filling his ears Fihrgua knew his mecha's most formidable weapon system was out of action- _but he was not._

Immediately devoid of a clear order in the chain of command, the surviving Heavy Artillery Regults of the assault company were now sprinting all around the Warrior for the structures of the micronian population center. Though the tallest in the direct path of the company were scarcely the height of a Regult, and most were shorter- poor cover and concealment was still preferable to none.

Fihrgua set his Regult into a sprint in the same direction as a half dozen others who were converging on the same cluster of low-rise structures. Under cover, some cohesion and order could be regained- but survival was the first order of business.

Fihrgua's Regult was into its third stride when the damage warning he was now blocking out was joined by a threat warning tone.

It registered with the warrior, and then he heard nothing more.

The city raced by beneath Captain Carol "Oscar" Franks as she held the lead position in the flight of four ASC-AF F-1B "Spector" attack aircraft as they neared the turning point over the northern fringes of Santiago Papasquiaro that would line them up for an attack run.

Low-level flight, even at speeds nearing six hundred knots and with weapons stations loaded to capacity had been a steady part of the training and exercise regiment for Franks, her squadron, and other Spector pilots of the ASC-AF. As a result, operating the fast attack aircraft less than sixty meters off the deck had come to feel almost natural to Franks- though the addition of an urban landscape below added an uncommon twist.

Instead of the rolling forms of hills of open land or the jagged forms of broken country whipping by in a streak, the right angles and symmetric forms of man-made structures created the deck and periodic obstacles to be avoided. Franks had even found it amusing in the unnerving way that things in combat sometimes were that on the leg of her approach run where she and her element had passed level with the upper floors of a medium-rise apartment building through whose windows she had gotten quick but clear glimpses of interior decorations and furnishings- that this of all things had caused her to feel small stabs of panic at the possibility of slamming into a deck crowded with homes and shops, offices and stores.

It being no less of an end than furrowing an open field though, and no more likely- Franks had shook off the absurd apprehension almost as quickly as it had struck her.

She was also too absorbed in her job to dwell on it.

"Tempest Flight, approaching Waypoint Charlie-.", Frank announced as the range scale bordering the navigational icon on which her HUD center point was fixed shrank rapidly, "Come left to two-three-seven and maintain level in _three, two, one- NOW!.."_

Franks felt the weight of G-forces pile on rapidly to a level that caused the air bladders in her G-suit to begin to inflate as she rolled her Spector port and pulled the nose through the turn southwest.

No computer assistance was required for Franks to find the general area of the enemy along the western fringe of Santiago Papasquiaro. Smoke and dust generated by an artillery strike minutes before was only now showing the first signs of dissipating and fresher billows marking the kills of an RDF air-to-ground missile strike were still on the rise.

Additionally, Franks' HUD filled with target indicator boxes showing the specific locations of surviving Zentraedi Battle Pods relative to her aircraft and its approach. These were a "courtesy" of the RDF, the over-watching JSTARS "Oden", and moreover the InfoLink information sharing system that the RDF took for granted.

A fast- _suspiciously fast_ \- software upgrade to Tempest Squadron's Spectors had allowed the attack aircraft to drink with limitations from the data pool collected, collated, and redistributed through InfoLink to the extent that the RDF allowed.

Franks was aware that neither she nor her pilots enjoyed the full spectrum of InfoLink functionality the way that the Veritechs flying top cover, or even the increasingly obsolete A-9C Adventurer IIs did. Her Spectors could not remotely acquire or engage targets using the active sensors of another InfoLink networked platform as the RDF-AF could- but at this moment the JSTARS was providing her with precise target locations and types to mentally organize and prioritize her attack in a way that without InfoLink would have required her and her pilots to abandon the surprise of a rooftop-level approach to engage their own active sensors.

It was not the whole bag of tricks, but it was enough new ones to warrant some appreciation and gratitude.

"Tally eleven tangos, eleven through one o'clock.", Franks called as the target disposition in her direct path clarified, "I'll take tangos three, four, and five, left of center. Dervish, call yours and second element will mop up with best targets of opportunity."

Frank's wingman, second in her element, "Dervish", came back, "Six, seven, and nine- right of center are forward. I'll have a go at them-."

"Roger that. Pop-up and engage at five kliks, weapons free. Bug out due north along the primary egress route! We'll form up again at the top of the run to come back on any strays."

"Copy that, Oscar."

The range dropped away quickly with the streets and buildings of the city whisking by beneath. Just within the western limits of Santiago Papasquiaro, the pilot's keen eyes were able to make out the domed tops of their Battle Pod targets, the top-mounted missile pods swaying menacingly in the Spectors' general direction with the ostrich-like gait and advance of the war machines carrying them.

Partially because of the altitude at which the Spectors were closing, and no doubt also partially the radar-suppressing efforts of an orbiting RDF-AF EW bird, there was no indication that the Zentraedi were tracking them.

That could and likely would change quickly though once the Spectors announced themselves, Franks knew. She also knew that the Zentraedi Warriors at the controls of the Regults did not require their sensors to aim and fire their particle beam cannons- and unlikely as a hit on a fast moving Spector was from five kilometers distance, stranger things had been known to happen with the fortunes of war.

Franks' aircraft slipped through the five kilometer range mark and she nosed-up slightly to gain the altitude needed for her to engage before leveling out. The Spector's attack radar swiftly picked the targets in its forward hemisphere out from the abundance of other energy-reflective objects and locked on.

Target indicator boxes in Franks' HUD showed weapons lock with accompaniment of the familiar, audible tone as the pilot selected her targets and released the firing safety.

" _Fox Three!"_

Franks was able to make out some of the finer details of the advancing Heavy Artillery Battle Pots to include their unblinking, red sensor eyes before she felt the three Jaguars she had fired separate from the rails, and hauled the stick back and opened the throttles. As the nose of her Spector rose well above the horizon and she rolled the aircraft to starboard to take a relatively northern course away, the sky filled at all points with the dash of particle beam fire as the Battle Pods retaliated in the brief moment afforded to them to do so.

Glancing aft and between the visual obstructions of the starboard dorsal engine intake and the wing's top-mounted weapons station still carrying two Jaguar missiles- Franks could see the termination of the blast from one Jaguar's warhead, and the full, split-second sequence of a second in which the body of the Regult (strangely skull-shaped by some coincidence of design) was penetrated by the Jaguar's brutally excessive, shaped charge warhead and shattered at the seams of its major components. The crew hatch to the top and rear was blown from its frame and hinges on the leading edge of a fireball that contained the single, warrior occupant in mostly gaseous form and the single, top-mounted missile pod was seen by Franks to arc briefly before crashing through the roof a nearby low-rise building.

Franks lost sight of the Regults as Dervish's missiles struck a moment later with similar effect to her own.

Her flight's second element was now on its attack run and Franks speculated based on her element's success that she might have made the only pass required of her on these particular targets. A quick assessment in a few moments would tell.

As Santiago Papasquiaro grew distant beneath and behind Franks and the return fire from the reduced number of Regults finally ceased, she scanned what areas of the city she could see looking for the other Regults that she knew to be there. She was neither low on fuel nor ordinance, and it seemed a shame to linger on station with so much potential and not actively seek targets of opportunity.

It might have been the elation of a quick and almost uncontested victory Franks reminded herself that had her already looking for her next. –Or perhaps it was just her own inherent "killer instinct".

There was sure to be more work for everyone today- and tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that though.

Franks assured herself that she could afford to pace herself.

" _Contact front!- Eleven o'clock!"_

Major Gunston had been braced for this call by one of the Gladiators running a rotating point for his company. Oden had kept Berserker Company and Hercules Company to Gunston's east well aware of the two Regult assault companies' positions and movement through the city giving the RDF mecha advantage in choosing the relative place and time to make contact. That time had come with Berserker Company in as an ideal position as the term "ideal" could allow in the context of combat.

The southern portions of Santiago Papasquiaro were composed mostly of low and medium rise civilian structures of mostly the commercial and residential variety that provided some amount of visual cover and concealment for the Gladiators that topped out at just under 15 meters in height with the addition of the missile pod component to their heavy combat rigs. Moving in a scale-appropriate approximation of an infantry fire team from one point of concealment to the next, the leading Gladiators were able to maintain eyes (and sensors) on the more open areas of the city just south of its center, through which the Regults could be expected to traverse.

-And in the call to action by one of Gunston's drivers, there they were…

What the Zentraedi knew of the RDF-Army's presence, strength, or position within Santiago Papasquiaro beyond suspicion was only known by the enemy. The overflight of ASC-AF Spectors and the damage wrought on their comrades by them and by the stand-off attacks of their RDF-AF Adventurer II counterparts was certainly a cue to be on gouard.

"Berserkers, advance under cover and engage- _weapons free, weapons free_! -Left guard, watch our flank!", Gunston ordered as he passed the general movement desired to his mecha through InfoLink's "common operating picture" C2 functionality, "Hercules One, Berserker One- make your hook and establish and press a line!"

"Berserker One, Hercules One- Roger, watch your fire forward and right! -I don't want a Saber up the ass!.."

Gunston grinned to himself as the unnecessary mandate for caution and fire discipline was issued by his Hercules Company counterpart. The Hercules Gladiators were already breaking the line of advance they had held with the Berserkers to move forward and swing left as a door on a hinge to create a second line of attack with which the Zentraedi would have to contend. Though the Gladiator did not look remotely like a Regult, and was only modestly similar in anthropomorphic form and size to a Zentraedi Warrior, the chaos of battle sometimes had a way of making a Destroid Driver's trigger fingers prone to be faster than the cognitive processes governing it.

Reflex had to be relentlessly governed lest the tragedy of fratricide occur.

Forward of his own Gladiator with the three mecha fire team that had been leading the squad to which Gunston was attached, and to points both left and right, Berserker Company was now fiercely committed to battle within seconds of its intitiation.

Saber tactical missiles were fired from the external pods mounted on each Gladiator's shoulders at Regults whose bobbing progression west to east suddenly turned to face their attackers. Tracer rounds from the Gladiators' GU-11 gun pods showed by their zip from unseen points to Gunston's left and right that RDF-Army mecha was joining the exchange as quickly as each mecha could bring its weapons to bear.

Gunston resisted the enthralling mental trap of surveying the developing battle by visual means only. The burst of a Battle Pod in streamers of flame and debris as it was taken down by a Saber missile, or the way in which they seemed to dissolve with multiple impacts of heavy, armor-piercing 55mm gun pod shells was captivating to the basest human impulses of aggression- but it was the sound and the fury of battle.

Gunston's "God's Eye" view provided through Oden and InfoLink, into which all of his and Hercules Company's Gladiators fed constant stream of data was of much greater value- even if it was delivered into a more sanitized presentation.

Icons identifying not only the enemy in the battlespace, but the type of mecha showed clearly on Gunston's MFD. "Tango" icons showed as they were selected as targets by friendly mecha tied into InfoLink, preventing acquisition overlap and the unnecessary waste of ordinance. Targets engaged and killed winked from an "active red" to "neutralized grey", still providing warning of a mecha's position while advising the likelihood f a kill.

All the while the digitized accounting of life and death played out before Gunston, he was able to see well beyond what his own Gladiator's sensors and video systems could have shown him within the urban terrain to reveal the Zentraedi units that had been in trail of the units now being ground into nothing altering the course of their advance. They were turning south, well west of Berserker Company's left flank and moving with indications of their own augmented intelligence to close within range of striking at it.

Of course, Battle Pods were limited in their ability to _precisely_ attack to what their own sensors could show them. Gunston had no such limitations thanks to InfoLink.

Before the spreading line of Regults had even completed their swing to the south, Gunston had swept the lot with an indicator cue, marking them as requested targets for air support. –It would mean a little more exaggerated glory for an Adventurer II pilot who would do battle beyond the reach of his targets, but the day was promising plenty of work for all.

Undaunted by either their own limitations to engage beyond line-of-sight or by the fact that they were now likely being targeted from above and beyond their reach, the line of Battle Pods that Gunston had seen turn south with the apparent intent of engaging his weak left flank now began their own missile attack. "Hostile" icons fluttered in the way that indicated missile launch, and weapons tracks began to fan out from each in such a way as to indicate an area saturation attack and not an attack on specific targets. As InfoLink calculated, predicted, and displayed the clustered areas in which the arcing missiles would land the comfort that the Artillery Regults could not select specific targets was minimal.

Buildings both low and medium rise, commercial and residential all around Gunston and his Berserkers began to shatter before forces they had not been built to withstand as the Zentraedi fusillade struck. The active, automatic ECM systems of the Gladiators providing a final electronic screen of protection to individual mecha from missile attack blurred the vision of the alien weapons on their terminal descent- but did nothing to prevent their detonation at their random impact points. The top-mounted dual-laser turret of each Gladiator, rotating freely atop the pilot-directed sensor package of the mecha's "head" similarly acted independently, engaging proximal enemy weapons that posed an immediate threat- but these too were insufficient to prevent the mauling of the surrounding urban landscape.

High explosive warheads raised great chunks of debris high on flashes and clouds of smoke only to have gravity bring them down again in a hail on the Gladiators whose cover was quickly being reduced to nothing around them. Some mecha rocked violently and even staggered with proximal detonations, while others less fortunate in the random chance of battle were sent to the ground by armor piercing warheads striking them at the angle of their most minimal armor protection- or were consumed rapidly in the flame of plasma napalm.

The false sense of security provided by "cover" evaporated as Gunston saw the tally of his own losses registered on his commander's unit status display. Gen-1 Gladiators were rugged machines with superb pilot survivability, so not every mecha knocked out of action was indicative of a driver lost- but each had that potential, and Destroid Drivers were a tight-knit brotherhood.

"All Berserkers advance and engage!", Gunston ordered, any concealment provided by his position now literally crumbling about his unit. The commander's tactical display was now registering the missile strike in progress that Gunston had requested via InfoLink from the RDF-AF air support.

Though on a smaller scale than the saturation attack by the Zentraedi that Gunston had just weathered, the attack of Basilisks was no less savage and far more accurate in the destruction of specific targets. An advancing line of thirty alien mecha and their Zentraedi warrior occupants was reduced to five with a succession of explosions that felt at a distance more like an unceasing quake than a series of independent blasts.

The smoke and dust swirling around Gunston's Gladiator was too thick to allow him to see any of the destruction, but with losses of his own now there was some grim satisfaction in at least feeling reciprocity enacted at distance.

"Oden, Berserker One-. Some more of that air cover would be appreciated about now!"

Gunston was himself on the move now and was pelted with a cascade of mortar and brick, steel frame and shrapnel as a Zentraedi missile struck and obliterated the top two floors of the building his Gladiator had been passing to the left.

An area of the city some one kilometer deep and almost as wide opened before Gunston with minimal obstruction to direct visual contact with the enemy- and it showed that the Zentraedi were advancing as well.

Unable to make use of their impressive speed through the urban terrain, the Battle Pods could be clearly seen wading through civilian structures where they were low and insubstantial enough to fall underfoot. It was a sight to Gunston not unlike small children walking through mud deeper than expected and discovering labor where fun had been perceived.

While the missile systems of the Artillery Regults had been reduced in effectiveness by the loss of their primary means of targeting, the standard particle beam and auto-cannon weaponry standard to the mecha had not. Withering, seemingly unsustainable, fire erupted from the dual particle beam cannons mounted atop the upper forward portion of the Regults' cyclops skull-like bodies.

Gunston's Gladiator shuddered slightly as a fusillade of particle beam bolts stitched it and were intercepted by the mecha's additional armor applique without any damage to the Gladiator itself. A random hit given the frenzied spray of the attackers on their advance. –Yet the attack, like any, felt _personal_ -.

In the company of others in his squad, Gunston broke into a full run toward the enemy, identifying targets for his Sabers and firing them on the advance. Tracking and homing on a frequency unhindered by Merlin's EW radar suppression, the Sabers once fired flew accurately and true to target.

Gunston saw while in the process of identifying new targets the two Regults just off left of his center and at a range of 800 meters struck by the lethal tactical missiles he'd fired and ripped apart above their leg junction boxes.

The trade of blows felt fair enough to Gunston.

"Seahawk One, Oden. Strike tasker-. Engage all hostile units in the sandbox north of Phase Line Baca Ortiz. Be advised, ASC Tempest flight will be performing close air support south of Baca Ortiz. Confirm. Over."

LCDR "Salty" Owens had just drawn the A-9C Adventurer IIs of his Seahawk Squadron east of the "sandbox" of Santiago Papasquiaro to forego even the reduced chance of loss to SAM fire.

Also, he had been given the impression that the work of clearing the city in preparation to make it a combination staging area and FOB would primarily fall on the shoulders of the RDF-Army Destroid Corps. The officer conducting the mission briefing some hours earlier had mentioned some notion that a sweep by Destroids would minimize the damage to the city and its civilian structures versus what could be expected from a clearing effort with airpower as the centerpiece.

Whoever had made that call, the OA tactical commander or someone higher in the ranks back at ASC Durango Base that a direct match between Destroids and Battle Pods would incur the least amount of damage to the city- it appeared that neither the Zentraedi nor the Destroid Drivers had been copied on the memo.

Not accounting for the contributions of Arty opening the battle, and with the combined air and ground actions only minutes in- the property values within Santiago Papasquiaro were taking a _major hit._

Before first ground contact, both the Zentraedi entering the city from the west and moving east, and the RDF-Army Destroids entering from the south and pressing north had both been satisfied to move by the path of least resistance- the engineered paths of least resistance- the streets.

Once the first shot had been fired, the velvet gloves had come off though and as a result, both sides were now charging towards one another through and over the relatively insubstantial obstacles of civilian _edificios, casas, tiendas, y marcados_ with much the same effect as plunging and thrashing a weed-whacker into the heart of a well-established bed of tulips.

"Seahawk Flight", Owens ordered over his squadron frequency, "We'll rotate through the target area by two ship element in a clockwise wagon wheel- thirty second intervals between elements. You all heard Oden- no ordinance goes in south of Baca Ortiz-. Any dittos that slip south of that line belong to the ASC-AF and Army. Prioritize targets by proximity to the line and we'll sweep north-. Aim true, and good hunting!"

"Berserker One, Hercules One-. Be advised we are now forward of your position at your right and preparing to press toward targets at your center- _check your fire._ "

The notification from his Hercules Company counterpart reached Gunston just as a glance at the tactical COP had shown him the movement of "friendlies" beginning to traverse his front right to left.

Using the same screen to direct, Gunston tapped his own units that he desired to move and dragged to the relative position he wanted, ordering as he did-

"Berserkers Three and Four, displace and collapse back rear of the line and traverse left on the double-quick. Reconstitute as our left flank there…"

Gunston winced as the Gladiator's neural interface system similar to Neuro-Pilot alerted him to damage to the mecha by way of a mild stinging sensation. It was more of an irritation than a pain the pilot felt along his left ribcage, but enough to tell him without looking at a systems status display that Zentraedi particle beams had found his mecha where the additional armor applique did not cover the hull. The damage was minor- but a reminder that even with the responsibilities of a company commander, Gunston had to keep his attention outside of the cockpit.

Berserker Company had slowed now from a full charge to a quick advance because of the environmental change in the battlespace. With the first exchange of direct fire with the Artillery Battle Pods, the Gladiators had begun to mix harmless, smoke-generating missiles in with the Saber tactical missiles fired downrange. Merlin, the electronic warfare bird provided by the RDF-AF, had established and maintained an EM haze that had thwarted the Regults' radar target identification and target designation systems. It had done nothing to so much as blur the optical and laser systems that were no less effective in closer quarters, such as within the close confines of an urban battlespace.

The Gladiators had come equipped to handle this themselves though, and with the addition of the expected smoke from battle and collateral battle damage to the city, the fight was generating a thick, sooty fog of its own making.

Berserker and Hercules Companies' radar systems were unaffected by Merlin's blinding efforts, both their tactical and navigation systems piercing the physical fog of swirling ashen and charcoal grey.

Target indicator boxes still clearly appeared for Destroid Drivers marking "hostiles" for engagement. Gunston watched 55mm shell tracers zip from the blazing flare of his GU-11 gun pod's muzzle flash and vanish into the heavy draping of grey to be followed almost instantaneously by the muted, distant flash of secondary explosions from a Battle Pod struck. Other subdued secondary flashes not correlating to his actions were also visible to Gunston and were the work of other drivers of his or Hercules Company.

Under the veil of smoke, the Zentraedi were not faring as well. Now blinded almost entirely in the tactical sense by the loss of their attack radar, and to a lesser extent in navigation by the diminished effectiveness of their terrain-following radar that accounted for much of the venerable Regult's sure-footedness- the aliens had slowed to a groping, hesitant advance.

Return fire came in short bursts of particle beam bolts fired wildly at momentary glimpses of gun pod tracers, adjusting badly for the suspected points of origin. A short burst such as this had been the kind that had struck Gunston moments before- truly a "lucky shot in the dark". More often returned fire would pass harmlessly into oblivion or strike an unoffending building generating an impressive explosion that was then enthusiastically attacked again until the Zentraedi understood their misidentification of the target, or assumed falsely that a phantom Destroid had been neutralized.

With each Regult lost, each fruitless return of fire, and each false kill for the Zentraedi however, the perceivable hesitation sensed by Gunston grew.

They _had to be_ considering withdrawal.

With great surprise, and almost as though his thoughts had been channeled to the ranking Zentraedi Warrior left standing before him, Gunston observed as the "hostile' icons presented to him began to indicate a change in the Battle Pods' collective heading. As quickly as a Regult could be expected to be able to do so, they turned slightly north of west and began to retreat across ground that comrades had bled to take less than a minute before and at a speed appropriate for showing one's back to one's enemy.

Gunston recognized that this was not in keeping with the _Zentraedi way_ and considered for a moment halting his advance, now turned pursuit of the enemy.

A call from regimental C2 justified Gunston's instinct-.

"Berserker One, Hercules One- 77 Romeo One-. Hold your position and await reinforcement, ETA seven mikes. Three ditto reinforcement companies are entering the OA six kliks west of your position. Air support from Seahawk flight is being diverted to engage, and Arty is dialing in. Keep your heads down until we sound the all clear-. Copy? Over."

Gunston, checking his unit status board and finding his company five short of the number with which the Berserkers had entered Santiago Papasquiaro, felt a strong urge to demand an explanation of why they had been ordered in at all if command was as willing to raze the city with artillery. Knowing that it was the adrenaline speaking, Gunston avoided skirting insubordination and said rather-.

"77 Romeo One, Berserker Actual – roger that, hold this position and await reinforcement. Requesting helicopter gunship support also, Romeo One. The extra hand could be useful. Over."

There was a pause.

"Berserker Actual, Romeo One-. Negative on your last request. The airspace is still to fluid at this time. Once top cover secures it, your request will be reassessed. Sorry- it's the old-fashion way for now. Over."

The mauled cityscape was opening slightly before Gunston now, the blanket of smoke and dust was now dissipating with the aid of a steady breeze. As the air slowly transitioned from opaque to translucent, Major Gunston was able to see the low-level passes of half a dozen F-1B Spectors as they whipped by, trailing the storm of 27mm Mauser cannon shells and Hydra rockets they had fired and left in their wakes the secondary explosions of several of the retreating Regults that Gunston had been facing down moments earlier. The powerful rumble of jet engines merged with those of the explosions to create one inseparable quake that Gunston was sure was felt in all corners of Santiago Papasquiaro.

- _Too fluid for helicopter gunships…._

Gunston mused on Regiment's reading of the airspace. Clearly the ASC Air Force had no issues with low-level air support. –But the ASC rarely turned down the invitation to a fight.

Distant explosions and a joining tremor running through the ground beneath his Gladiator's feet told Gunston that the artillery strike against the three companies of Zentraedi reinforcements was commencing. The major had orders now to hold his position and wait for his own.

There was no rush on Gunston's part to rush into direct contact with the enemy again. No matter how effective the artillery massacre of the Zentraedi reinforcements was, there were plenty more dittos out there somewhere just beyond the outskirts of Santiago Papasquiaro that promised ample work for everyone today.

"Werewolf One, Mirage- _en garde-_. Tally one-twenty Red Bandits, plus one hundred Green Bandits, Bull's Eye two-ninety at three hundred. Bandits are dropping from orbit on course one-two-five at three thousand knots, decelerating."

Duggan felt the flush and lightness of a natural panic reaction that had his stomach feeling the queer, levitating sensation of the first, tall drop of a roller coaster. Gazing slightly north of due west, his helmet visor display system showed him rather benignly the jumble of thickly clustered target indicator boxes that were just at the fringe of his Valkyrie's own omnidirectional radar range.

Technology, no matter how advanced, could only ever _report_. The foreboding sensation of that report's implications would always be squarely on the shoulders of the human component.

"Mirage, Werewolf One-.", Duggan replied after making certain that his voice would not betray any of the understandable _concern_ he was feeling about what he was ready to say, "Vector us in. We'll have a go at `em for a laugh."

"Roger, Werewolf One.", Mirage replied, "Assume heading two-nine-zero and ascend to angels two-seven. Additional Valkyrie and ASC-AF interceptor squadrons are already being re-tasked from the east, but you'll still have a prime position. Over."

Duggan laughed dryly, "You're too good to us, Mirage. Never too early in the war for a slaughter, eh?"

"A little optimism there, Werewolf One-.", Mirage suggested sympathetically.

"I'm being realistic-.", Duggan replied, "It's gonna be _their_ slaughter, Mirage. Beer's on you when we chock tires after this one."

"It's a date. Good hunting, Werewolves."

"We're on-. Werewolves, _draw blood!_ ", Duggan said down the chain to his reduced squadron whose combat effectiveness still ranked high enough to advance the enemy sympathy on credit, "Break to pairs and come left to two-nine-zero on ascent to angels three-seven. We'll have maximum Basilisk range before we reach altitude, but don't be rushed. I wanna pluck those Green Bandits out of the sky before we get into knife fighting range."

Having been on the western leg heading north of the circuit supporting the ongoing battle below in Santiago Papasquiaro, Duggan led his wingman and squadron by two ship elements into an ascending turn west toward the inbound bandits called out by Mirage.

Duggan had been sincere with some bravado about the Zentraedi "Red Bandit" Gnerls and "Green Bandit" power armor rushing to their own slaughter, but more so to his squadron about being selective and engaging the Green Bandits at greater range.

It had not taken many engagements with the Queadlunn Rau variants for the experienced Valkyrie pilot and his subordinates to understand that they were better dealt with at an arm's length than in a brawl.

Larger and heavier as they were, not unlike the true Quadrano power armor that Veritech pilots were trained to respect, these variants still had great maneuverability and agility at the ranges where the firepower they brought into a dogfight was maximized.

It was not an act of excessive caution to avoid by every measure possible the playing of their game.

 **RDF-AF JSTARS Aircraft, "Oden"**

Eight hours before, there had been _indications_ of Zentraedi forces moving south through the Sierra Madre mountain chain from largely uncontested landing zones further north.

Four hours before, there had been multiple instances of contact wherein small to moderate sized Zentraedi units had been identified moving deftly through terrain that had been considered impassible by mecha units in force.

In each instance, fierce defense of key passes and positions had been mounted by primarily ASC Army units with RDF Army support and had inflicted significant casualties upon the alien invaders. In each instance also, those defenses had also quickly dwindled to ineffectiveness as the readily available ammunition for artillery was drained and the mecha units thrown hastily into positions to block avenues of enemy movement were dislodged and forced into fighting retreats, or overrun altogether.

Now, with UAVs re-tasked to augment the unrivaled observational and surveillance powers of the JSTARS platform to provide a comprehensive view of the situation – the whole picture was becoming clear.

Brigadier General Camilla Renkin scowled with the unwelcome confirmation of a grim truth she had strongly suspected when the first civilian reports of Zentraedi moving through the mountain chain had been received and verified. The trickle of Zentraedi whose leading units had tripped disproportionate responses from overzealous human defenders was swelling into a stream of the enemy who were now moving unhindered through those defensive points that had exhausted themselves with their initial efforts.

That stream would continue to build as smaller, dispersed units traveling the passes of the Sierra Madre joined one another to become a torrent. That torrent, General Renkin knew had to be dammed and held within the topographical confines of the mountains as it would become a flood broad and deep if it were allowed to escape.

She had seen this as a _probability_ and not just a possibility from the first fragments of aerial reconnaissance and also a healthy gut instinct. She had advised, warned, and most recently pleaded up the chain for the forces needed to staunch the flow- but had been met most notably by the single-word response, sent in combination with a reassignment of insufficient reinforcing units- "Manage."

Renkin, feeling the weight of an impossible task settling on her shoulders as innumerable military commanders in history had before her, strained to find the best way to make do and understood why she was having to do so.

Oden's sister-JSTARS "Ares" whose assignment it was to provide real-time monitoring and C2 to the ASC and RDF units defending the northern approaches to Oasis had been actively engaged in its task since before first contact with the enemy in the Sierra Madre.

Army of The Southern Cross and RDF-Army units in divisional strength rushed into place had met head-on under building air and artillery support the Zentraedi units whose number was conservatively several times their own.

The "David and Goliath" confrontation, first joined well before dawn in a stretch of open scrubland that lacked distinction before this first major land battle of The Second Robotech War gave it any notoriety had initially seen the combined ASC and RDF effort _gain_ ground behind an advancing curtain of raining artillery and rocket fire as well as more accurate tactical missile attacks by air support.

The Zentraedi had not relented though and had continued to press until the inevitable had occurred.

Fire bases, as they would later in the Sierra Madre, expended their supplies of ammunition, rockets, and missiles both on-hand and at nearby supply staging areas. In the gaps where transportation units rushed resupply forward, the full weight of the Zentraedi onslaught fell heavily upon Terran mecha divisions despite the best efforts of air support in its unbroken tempo and despite the continual presence of marauding Zentraedi sir forces who RDF-AF and ASC-AF continued to struggle to keep at arm's length.

Surges in Zentraedi ground forces, like storm waves against the sand dunes of a beach began to wear and push back the Terran forces whose opening gains had been so promising.

In the subsequent hours, terms like _defense_ had been substituted more and more frequently in coded communications by ones like _tactical withdrawal_ as fresh Zentraedi units continued to hurl and break themselves upon ASC and RDF forces that enjoyed fewer luxuries in terms of replenishment.

In this context, General Renkin understood why it was that she was ordered to "manage", and why she was receiving only five additional regiments of mecha armor with which to do so.

She was not at the same time being asked to totally squeeze life's blood from a stone.

Additional artillery support, drawn from flank and rear defenses of Oasis were almost in place, and the combined air forces of the ASC and RDF could be counted on to be far too prideful to plead an inability to support.

It would have to be enough to stop the torrent, or if not- to at least minimize the scale of the flood.

"Containment of the enemy-. Containment and then decimation while we still have them bottled up.", General Renkin said, the dire focus heard in her voice only being surpassed by the expression she wore as she spoke to her staff.

Those who had served under Renkin the longest and who knew her the best knew that neither her tone nor her expression was contrived. She was attempting to project nothing, and in doing so only displaying the genuine indicators of earnest concentration as were true to her.

Renkin moved her hand over and through the holographic display of her AOR, slicing cleanly through the light representation of mountain, foothill, valley, and pass.

"These three gaps, Larry, Moe, and Curley are the only passes in the area broad enough to move forces with sufficient density to make a breakout and sustain a movement of any significance-.", Renkin said confidently to her staff as she moved her hand over each of the passes and their meandering paths from within the Sierra Madre chain, out through the abbreviated foothills, and into the flatlands that led into Oasis's left flank. Her supposition was substantiated by the tracking of Zentraedi forces moving mainly by the intersecting and conjoining passes the ultimately formed the three to which she had assigned names.

"The peripheral avenues, smaller passes and gaps will see smaller breakouts, but we can manage those easily with mecha, fighting vehicles, and ad-hoc air support-."

Renkin used the display's overlay tools to draw three broad bands north to south, perpendicular to general east to west paths of Larry, Moe, and Curley, continuing with her plan as she did.

"We are establishing three general kill _zones_ -. Alpha, farthest west where the enemy will begin to merge still within the confines of the mountain passes, we will employ area saturation - bombing from air platforms, long range artillery- whatever we can apply. Bravo Zone will be the domain of the ASC and RDF Air Forces, and Charlie Zone will fall along the openings of the gaps and controlled by direct contact from the ground units we're moving in and whatever air support is required. _Beyond that_ \- we're falling back on rosaries, prayer mats, and lucky charms-. Let's make sure it doesn't come to that. Start making it happen."

The pause between Renkin's final imperative and her staff packed tightly around the JSTARS' central command display beginning to issue orders to their subordinates was barely measurable.

Renkin herself was left in that uneasy limbo between laying out her general concept of a battle plan and seeing the details gel from the efforts of her skilled action officers. The senior officer's faith in their abilities was as unshakable as it could be without sounding exaggerated, but it was admittedly an unprecedented challenge for them all.

In truth, this being their first war against an _organized_ Zentraedi force and not the quelling of uprisings as had followed The Zentraedi Holocaust and the subsequent years of turmoil- _every_ challenge was an _unprecedented_ challenge.

Though the organized enemy was different, there were also elements in this new war that were very familiar to Renkin and her staff who had all served in The Global War. Particularly the mass of Gnerl Fighter Pod "Red Bandits" and "Green Bandits" (that some were now referring to as _X-Rau_ because of their visible kinship to the Quadrano combat suits) that were on descent from orbit and headed directly toward her AOR.

"Goshin-.", Renkin said to her RDF-AF liaison, a freckled, fireplug of a major who looked with his round face like anything but the model of a military officer, but who was seldom separated from the Air Force action Renkin required by more than a single call, "-Get Mirage on the horn and find out why that bastard-cloud is still threatening to screw up my otherwise sunny day-."

"Already on it, ma'am.", Goshin replied with a mild and understood embarrassment that his superior should have to ask, "RDF and ASC fighters are two minutes out. It'll shower bandit blood a little, but no need to call off the picnic."

"I'm holding you to that Goshin.", Renkin replied, "And where are my heavies for Alpha Zone?"

Prepared for the question, Goshin replied immediately, "The last are raising wheels now, ma'am. They'll be ready to move into position once the airspace is secure."

Renkin surveyed the general strength and movement of Zentraedi units through the passes of the mountain chain that would converge in the "Alpha Zone" of Larry, Moe, and Curley and could see without difficulty that the timing was to be tight.

"Let Mirage know that we may not have the _neat and tidy_ option. The enemy is seeing the same tactical picture as we are and knows his liabilities. The Army will do what we can from long range, but if we have to call the bombers to help plug those gaps through a hornet swarm… Tell Mirage to be ready for that contingency."

 **ASC Durango Base, "Oasis"**

General Leonard, happy to enjoy the traditional draping of military leadership felt most connected to that tradition of the archetypical leaders when planning on paper maps.

 _Execution_ , however- command and control of modern forces with capabilities far in advance of those that were state of the art only a decade before….

Leonard was not a fool. For the purposes of _execution_ , he clad himself in all of the safeties and advantages that technology could afford. Durango Base's subterranean command complex, impervious to any mode of attack available to the enemy short of direct, orbital, heavy gunfire provided such advantage.

Even the edge of technology and its advantages could be blunted by other factors however.

It was a long-held, popular and true statement that no military commander went to war with the army they _wanted_ , but rather the one that they _had_.

Similarly, no commander was ever able to plan with the abundance of facts that they wanted- only the facts that they had.

With the sudden appearance of this enemy in force and the negligible time afforded to the defenders of Earth, now referring to themselves increasingly as The Gemini Coalition (based on the loose pact between The United Earth Government and the independent states that bore the same name) – defensive planning had been the cobbling together of a patchwork of existing operational plans for comparable scenarios imagined on a much smaller scale. It was by all admittedly a "best effort" demonstration, and as such had immediate, exploitable gaps. This condition was only worsened by assumptions that had to be made about the enemy's strengths in numbers and capability.

With the REF Fleet fled the Sol system, the Earth's defense and surveillance constellation of space stations and satellites ravaged, and ground-based tracking and communications systems at best in shambles- it was difficult to gauge the size, disposition, and disbursal of the Zentraedi force that had already made planetfall and that was continuing to land.

From the "front line" some 250Km north of Durango Base, which was in truth a series of front _lines_ that had not yet merged into a single, cohesive axis of enemy advance, there were only the streams of data provided by RDF-AF JSTARS, RDF and ASC UCAVs, and the reports of unit commanders to provide glimpses of the enemy forces in movement across only a portion of the North American continent.

The glimpse and the building narrative it was telling was increasingly disturbing.

General Leonard had little visibility into the Zentraedi invasion of other continents and even less ability to intervene, however within his AOR and sphere of influence his plan had been simple at its core. Slow and arrest the movement of the enemy in the harsh wilderness of the open, arid, Mexican landscape and deny them sufficient replenishment to sustain the massive force known to be already in-theater.

For this, The Gemini Coalition did not need a decisive victory in battle, nor noteworthy victories at all- but only sufficient success in bogging down the aliens.

RDF and ASC Air Force units in conjunction with mobile SAM batteries were performing admirably in managing the airspace above "friendlies". While a state of uncontested air superiority had not been achieved, nor was it expected to be achieved- the top cover provided was allowing Terran ground forces to focus on the battlefield and not necessarily what might be above it.

The same air forces were at the same time taking on the second herculean task of providing air –to-ground support as was increasingly required by ground commanders.

The bulk of "enemy force reduction" which was a euphemism for the practice of wholesale slaughter was borne up to this point by artillery and long-range rocketry, courtesy of both RDF and ASC armies. Fleet of foot and nimble in maneuver as the Gemini armies were, and able to inflict significant carnage upon units manifold times their size as they were, the same outcome was still achieved in a fraction of the time and with almost no risk of "friendly" losses by brief and concentrated torrents of steel rain.

Bravado aside, the RDF and ASC mecha units were as satisfied with mop-up operations over the prospect of glorious death in the face of overwhelming odds.

There was a mathematics to it all- the science of war _yin_ to Tsugn Tsu's art _yang_.

-And from the onset, the numbers were not adding up.

ASC and RDF-Army mecha, tanks, fighting vehicles, and infantry were poising themselves to meet the enemy advance at advantageous locations with their own- an anticipated recoiling defense planned with preparations to support from staging areas that were building to readiness. Like wading into deepening mud, the enemy would find itself slowed to a crawl by increasing resistance over an increasing expanse of terrain.

This was the "art" in Leonard's plan.

The "science" as that the art was predicated on thresholds of enemy unit density and effectiveness at given points of assessment and evaluation- and the thresholds were not being met.

The uncertainty about the number of Zentraedi involved in the invasion operations was not only proving to be unfavorable to Leonard's defense, but _exceedingly_ unfavorable.

Faceless, unknown Zentraedi commanders were as expected willing to commit vast numbers of their own to fruitless destruction at the hands of Gemini artillery and rocket attacks for the tradeoff of maintaining forward momentum.

What had not been anticipated was the Zentraedi commanders' ability to readily replace their fallen with fresh replacements in every instance.

RDF-Army and ASC Army units had already had scores of direct contact clashes with Zentraedi units decimated by indirect artillery and rocket fire, and had won soundly in each. –However every clash had incurred the inevitable casualties, and the follow-on Zentraedi reinforcements had driven the Gemini forces into _fighting withdrawals_ at a greater pace and with more, additional casualties suffered in the process than operational planning could tolerate and maintain hope of success.

Gemini artillery and rocket batteries naturally increased the intensity of their support for forward friendly units, and in doing so were depleting munitions and ordinance faster than the planned expenditure thresholds. Staging areas and the transportation units feeding the firebases performed admirably in supporting the increased demand initially, but they too began to falter as demand for the implements of killing exceeded the supply.

RDF-AF and ASC-AF squadrons stretched themselves thin to close gaps on the ground and to supplement waning artillery fire with air support, and in doing so had suffered additional casualties of their own as well as breeches to the canopy of air cover that they were providing.

First aid and triage stations were already becoming overwhelmed by the sudden surge of wounded brought to them, and the surgical hospitals even augmented as they were with state-of-the-art automated surgical equipment were approaching their limits.

While the enemy continued to roll south with impressive speed and ghastly disregard for their own losses that they could replace, the Gemini forces were approaching already a tempo of maximum effort and insufficient effectiveness in executing Leonard's plan.

Fatigue would set in at some point amongst those taxed beyond a sustainable level of effort and mistakes would be made- some costly in lives and material. Small but brilliant victories in skirmishes and smaller battles would become fewer, or at least lose their luster as the Zentraedi juggernaut simply pressed on. Morale would fade and be replaced by the urgency to fight for survival- and that urgency might turn into the killer of all order: _fear_.

There was also now this growing understanding of the threat to the west that had crept through the Sierra Madre with greater stealth in movement than the Zentraedi were thought to be able to exercise. A force not so immense as the main body of the enemy steamrolling south, but one sufficient to threaten a flank whose defense had included the very mountains the enemy had used as concealment.

General Leonard raised himself from the stooped posture he had held for many hours at the side of the C2 display table and accepted the protest of muscles that had grown accustomed to that posture.

Without a call for attention, or for the ear of any particular party in the assembly of command and support staff the officer began to speak in a steady, booming tone that drew the attention of all.

"The performance of the Gemini forces, ASC and RDF alike, has been nothing short of exemplary and heroic this day- as has been that of every man and woman in this room.:

"War in execution is every bit as much a gamble as it is calculation, and as such is always prone to go contrary to the soundest expectations. The battle being fought is failing to meet the minimal criteria established and necessary for our success. Sound as it was, the broad strategy was mine, as was acceptance of unknown factors and of assumptions- and therefore the faults we now seeing develop in the battle plan are solely my fault as well."

"We _are not defeated_ \- but we must recognize that to stay this course is to risk extreme losses at a time when replenishment of material and personnel is unlikely. It is therefore my call and mine alone to implement the Sanctuary Contingency. We will strategically withdraw from the Durango OA, assess our best option based on established operational plans, and execute."

"This is to be a long war, friends-. We will not win it in a day, and we should not give the enemy an opportunity to either. Now carry out your orders, we have precious little time-."

Leonard had moved away from the command station he had stood by for countless hours to a nearby, conventional folding table that he had had erected near a row of humming server racks. His printed map lay open across the table's surface between the two rolled ends of itself, showing only the area north where Leonard's original plans had been tried and met with less than acceptable outcome.

With all the care of a novelist handling the manuscript of his masterpiece, or a composer the music sheets of his _magnum opus_ , Leonard exposed topography further south by unfurling the map from one roll and taking up the slack in the other.

Quickly finding the expanse of land that interested him, Leonard stood silently over the map, poring over the details as his mind multi-tasked the elements of the orders he had just given.

Leonard was not alone at his map however, nor was he in the least bit surprised to find his RDF counterpart in The Gemini Coalition hovering over the same map from a half-step further back.

"You disagree with my decision, Lowell?", Leonard asked as though the other officer had given some non-verbal disapproval of his choice of golf club on the opening stroke of a particularly tricky hole.

"Not at all.", Lowell replied genuinely, "It was a tough one, but necessary- and decided on, I think, at a critical moment of decision. Sure, you could have put off the decision four or six hours with justification- but it would have cost more lives than needed."

"I'm happy that the RDF approves. –I feared that you had lost faith in my command abilities.", Leonard said dryly- his concerns clearly far from the RDF's opinion.

General Lowell took the cue to dispense with the martial small talk.

"My key concern, General, is the same as yours now. We both understand that the Sanctuary Contingency carries with it a significant cost in material-. Forty percent at minimum in Category One supplies and provisions, and up to _seventy_ if things go poorly. Without The Robotech Factory spinning around in orbit and our planet-side logistical capabilities sure to take a severe hit in the near future- that does put us into a bit of a predicament for continued, effective operations."

Leonard nodded his unreserved agreement, "That is the situation we find ourselves in, Lowell. How fortunate that both your forces and ours have invested some thought and preparation to just such a scenario."

General Lowell's expression flickered a hint of shock with an accompanying palor that was quickly governed and recovered from by the senior RDF officer.

"Should I pretend to not know what you're talking about, Leonard?"

Leonard's tone and expression were mildly irritated and impatient as he responded, "I'll leave it to you to decide how long we play cloak and dagger with things that we both know that we know about one another. It we had invested half of the energy in surveilling the Zentraedi as we have spent spying on one another over the past four years, we might have been able to avoid this conversation."

Relieved of the weight of explanation, Lowell replied, "Then we can speak frankly. –And in speaking frankly, I think that we should first discuss preservation of our operational capabilities as long as possible- giving The Fleet time to act and affect the war."

"As good a place to start as any.", Leonard agreed, "-But not here…"

It was growing hot- unusually hot for winter, even by Mexico standards- as the sun climbed high and bathed intensely the scrubland from horizon to horizon through a building mesh of jet contrail clouds. Never-ending rolls of turbine engine rumbling and sonic boom thunder gave the illusion of a storm- or perhaps just heralded the one to the north that had not yet arrived.

Winters was unaffected by the sounds that were all too commonplace to him, nor was he yet afflicted by the heat beneath the layers of gear worn regularly by a fighter pilot during combat operations.

For the moment, he was enjoying the relief of escaping the confines of the cockpit and of being allowed a full range of motion denied to him by the hours of flight operations already this day. Muscles sore and stiff from restricted space and periods of high-G strain were slow to surrender their tension, but Winters would take any measure of relief at this point.

The respite would be brief, it was understood, as the workload for Valkyrie pilots was compounding by the minute - so Winters forced himself to savor the sultry air that was sullied regularly by only the necessary drags on the third in a chain of cigarettes the pilot had smoked.

Knight Hawk Squadron had lifted off before dawn, heavy with ordinance, and twelve serviceable Valkyries strong. Eleven now stood on a portion of the runway apron, seven undergoing a quick inspection of what the pilots had assessed as being "minor damage", and all awaiting- hopefully- rearmament and release for whatever ne next sortie would bring.

Winters watched from the requisite stand-off distance for smoking with a squadron commander's interest and tried to read Lyle's expressions and gesticulations as he went from aircraft to aircraft to receive the assessments of subordinates – some borrowed from other support crews - as to the flightworthiness of his "babies". By his reading of Lyle's clear indicators, one Valkyrie was out of action and possibly another. A debate on a third was ongoing.

Fortunately, the fitness of Winters' pilots for duty was more certain- with the exception of one whose condition was not yet assured. It was a tarnished silver lining. Others that Winters knew in his trade had gotten it much worse than Knight Hawk Squadron.

An open-sided relief tent had been erected on a bare patch of parched earth beside the concrete of the runway apron, under which Winters' pilots and as many from another squadron whose name was unfamiliar to the lieutenant colonel congregated around stainless steel beverage urns, an open box of MREs, and aluminum folding chairs that offered seating in the shade. Considerate, but not well thought-out, the chairs remained unoccupied as the other pilots like Winters opted to use their time on the ground to stand and stretch before strapping into a cockpit again for another mission of unknown duration.

Shortly after Knight Hawk Squadron had turned their aircraft over to Lyle for inspection as needed, which in truth had been only minutes before, an open top rover had arrived with a driver and an RDF-AF captain in the passenger seat. The officer's general presence, augmented by the reddened complexion of one unaccustomed to significant time spent in the sunlight but suddenly thrust into it, and the dossier style folders he carried clutched to his chest as though they contained the strategy for fighting the war told Winters that he was from Operations and here to present orders for the next fiasco.

Winters watched from what could have been shouting distance had there not been the idling engines of almost two dozen Valkyries nearby as the captain and Dalton had a brief conversation during which Winters was gestured at repeatedly. The CO might have normally taken it upon himself to join the other two officers beneath the tent, but being comfortable exactly where he stood and the thought that some time in the sun would do the pasty, Flight-Ops Center dweller some good made him stick with his prevailing inclination to stay put.

-Besides- the ground at his feet was accumulating an impressive cigarette butt collection that Winters knew he could still contribute to.

Dalton led the captain out from under the tent's shade and across the short expanse of sun-scorched ground, around thatches of scrubby dessert plants at a jogging pace that was just fast enough to suggest urgency. Winters used the head of his improvised swagger stick to first cock back the bill of his worn, leather wheel cap and then to scratch the small of his back as he watched the two approach.

"Don't meet us halfway or anything, Jack-.", Dalton said wryly when he was close enough to be heard and as the two slowed quickly to a halt before Winters.

"-Privileges of rank-.", Winters replied receiving a salute form the captain and returning it, "Any word on my pilot?"

"-Ashton, sir.", said the captain, identifying himself for the CO's benefit.

Winters flicked away the cigarette butt that had just burned down to its filter and reached for the pack that Dalton already had out for him, "Yeah? - _Don't care_. My pilot, any word?"

Winters had seen Major Morris Grim "Reaper" eject from his Valkyrie over an impressively non-descript vastness of Mexican countryside and had seen his chute deploy before he and Vice had assumed the task of taking down the Zentraedi power armor that had gotten the better of the Valkyrie pilot, and to allow Reaper's wingman, Scooter, to monitor his descent to ground.

Finishing off the Zentraedi had been relatively quick work- it (gone were the days when one could automatically say _she_ when referring to the alien piloting an flight-capable power armor) having been the second in a stray pair that had just happened to cross through a kill box assigned to Knight Hawk Squadron. Scooter had done the deed on the first alien in the element, taking it with a pair of Basilisks just outside of the power armor's engagement sphere. The second had rushed the closest pair of Valkyries, knowing its advantage at the closer ranges and had absorbed two Basilisks from Reaper before it was able to reply.

Several, perhaps half a dozen 55mm shells from Reaper's GU-11had clipped away chunks of the power armor and had even exploded its port shoulder missile launcher, but had failed to strike a killing blow. The same pass had seen the Zentraedi fire a cluster of a dozen or more short-range missiles though, away from which Reaper had rolled his aircraft violently and trailing a storm of flares and chaff and behind a veil of focused EM interference.

Impossible as it had seemed in the split second it took for the action and reaction to occur, it had looked in that moment as though Reaper would slip the Zentraedi's counterstrike. A single missile went wider than the rest of the swarm though and reacquired the Valkyrie as they came almost head-to-head and detonated.

Both of Grim's engines had ingested debris and fragmentation shards form the missile and had flamed impressively as they were shredded from the inside. Maybe sensing the damage that had been done, or simply reacting to having a missile explode in his face- Reaper had either way done the right thing and pulled the ejection handle, rocketing himself clear of a Valkyrie that could not have been saved.

The end of the alien that had shot down Reaper was far less of a contest than the minute leading up to the doing of it. A single Basilisk apiece from both Winters and Vincenz had wrapped it up with a nearly simultaneous dual-strike and might have seemed unsportsmanlike to an observer who had not been of the knowledge that the killing weapons had been the third and fourth used in the effort.

Scooter had followed Reaper to the deck, his landing point being less than a kilometer from the second Zentraedi power armor's terminal point. The rise and quantity of smoke from the alien's crash provided some degree of certainty that _that_ particular Zentraedi would do Reaper no harm- but the melee leading up to Reaper's downing had drawn attention from allied units who had offered assistance. –And if "friendlies" were aware of a pilot on the ground, it was assured that the Zentraedi knew as well.

Reaper's "safe" landing had been confirmed visually and his position called in for assignment to one of a multitude of SAR units operating this day- and that was all that Knight Hawk Squadron could do for one of its own. The enemy was still thick in other portions of the sky and to loiter was an invitation for them to investigate.

Reaper would be better served by a "less is more" approach to cover from the air.

"SAR picked him up fifteen minutes ago or so, Colonel.", the captain named Ashton reported per Winters' curt demand, "Shaken up some- a badly sprained or possibly broken ankle- but they have him. Those are all the details I have on that, sir."

"I'll let Scooter know", Dalton volunteered, "-He'll be relieved."

Winters checked the familiar faces beneath the tent some sixty paces off and found that Garret was not amongst them.

"Where is Scooter?"

" _Being_ relieved.", Dalton replied nodding at the portable latrine standing a short distance from the tent under which the other pilots were gathered, "-And he's been in there a while… I guess we're not done for the day."

Winters glanced at the dossier folder carried by Ashton and said, "No, probably not."

Ashton, certain that he was on the outside of a matter of pertinence, asked with honest confusion, "-Am I missing something here, sir?.."

"Only our own brand of augury, Captain.", Winters sighed, "We requested someone who could read tea leaves- but you know how the requisition process goes…."

"You don't want to know.", Dalton assured the junior officer, "But I'm guessing that you've got something heavy for us."

Ashton handed the folder to Winters who in turn began to flip through the limited contents that included an official copy of his equally brief orders, a map of the operational area, and an intelligence report that told him nothing that he did not know before taking off that morning.

"Scooter's colon would be right again, Freddy-. We're going west this time and flying top cover for ground support.. –Ashton, _what the hell?-_ ..There's no listing of the units we're operating with. Am I supposed to scrape the rest of the mission package together myself as I head to the OA?.."

Ashton shook his head apologetically, "Sorry, sir- Things are a little chaotic at the JOC-. They were still pulling the details of assignment together as they sent me out the door. You'll join up with another Valkyrie squadron under a Lieutenant Commander Kusunoki and cover for a patchwork squadron of Logans and Specters under a Lieutenant Colonel Mathias…"

"Oh, the _fuck_ you say, Captain…", slipped Dalton's lips faster than his verbal governor could act as he rolled his head disbelievingly, "-And _that_ would explain why Scooter is on a _mega-dump_ …"

Ashton's face took on the expression of one who had barged in on something he had discovered he wanted no part in with the doing of it.

"Sirs- you're _really_ starting to weird me out-."

"Welcome to the 623rd, Captain-.", Winters said flatly as he took the cigarette from his lips.

"-Should I say you've requested re-assignment?..", Ashton asked, at a loss for anything else to say under circumstances he wanted to know nothing more about.

Winters tossed his unfinished cigarette to the ground finding that he no longer wanted it and said, "Don't bother, Captain-. No point in asking for something that they won't grant. Just tell whoever was drafting up assignments that they really have to work on their sense of humor."

"-I was already sorta thinking that, Colonel-.", Ashton agreed, "-Should I expect the same enthusiasm from Lieutenant Colonel Mathias?"

"How now?"

Unenthusiastically, Ashton explained raising a second folder, "-I've got to hand Lieutenant Colonel Mathias his orders _next_. ..You were just closer, so-. ..Anything I should know, Colonel?"

Dalton snorted, "Wear body armor."

"-Huh?"

Winters was fixated still on the orders intended for Mathias, clutched in Ashton's left hand.

"-You said we were closer-. Where's Mathias's squadron roosting?"

Ashton pointed across some two hundred meters of untamed desert shrubs and grass to where ASC-AF ground crews worked around ASC aircraft in much the same way that Lyle, his crew, and other adopted technicians were working at the Valkyries of Knight Hawk Squadron.

Winters had seen the assortment of Logan Veritechs and Specter attack aircraft even as he'd been parking _Marilyn_ for inspection, but his mind had been too besieged by a multi-front assault of thoughts and concerns far more pressing for the possibility that Mathias and his known grudge against the Knight Hawks was just over a stone's throw away to even enter his cognitive stream.

Feeling suddenly that he had been woefully negligent in the guarding of his own pilots, Winters sought some comfort in assuring himself that Mathias was probably also in a similar oblivious state.

"-Here, _gimme_.", Winters said,, thrusting his hand toward Ashton with a grasping motion of the fingers, "-Their orders, hand `em over."

Puzzled, Ashton protested, "-Sir, I'm really not supposed to-."

"Captain-.", Dalton reasoned, "-Do you _really_ want to spend the time with us it would take to argue this out?"

The folder found Winters' hand as Aston said, "-If I get pinched on this, I'm telling them you threatened me."

Winters gave the junior officer a salute of dismissal, saying after him, "-If you have to, don't worry- they'll believe you."

Ashton quickly retreated in the direction of the rover he had come in with the clear hope of escape from what was probably the oddest duty he had executed this day, and in going passed Lyle and Scooter who were now making their way toward the squadron commander and XO.

"Nice guy.", Dalton commented in reference to Ashton, "-A little tightly wound for this war, if my opinion counts for anything…"

"Wars do that to people.", Winters replied, passing Mathias's orders back and forth between his hands.

"-And we're doing _what_ with _that?_ ", Dalton asked without need of making clear mention of the folder.

"I'm going to give it to him- and do the whole _make peace_ thing-.", Winters said, "This _has to be_ one of those divinely arranged moments that Preacher always talks about-. What could go wrong?

"Mathias could shoot you in the face for giggles.", Dalton said without having to invest much energy into the "worst case" scenario.

"Well-.", Winters sighed, "That would make it rather awkward for you and the chaps to fly cover for him then, wouldn't it?"

"-Hey!.. Who was the _hombre_ who looked like he was `bout to sheeyt a pineapple?!.."

Lyle's unorthodox salutation brought Winters and Dalton back from supposition.

"Flight Ops.", Dalton replied in a declining yell as the plane captain and Scooter drew nearer and it became less necessary to hollar over the sound of engines, "Bringing us word that SAR has Reaper- a little banged up but serviceable. Brought us our orders too."

"Is that why you two look like you're about to shit a pineapple too?, Scooter asked borrowing Lyle's colorful descriptive powers and looking visibly relieved to hear of his wingman's relative good health and condition.

"I'm thinking I might prefer that.", Winters said ambiguously, "-And speaking of which, Scooter, damn you and your prophetic colon. The Ritual is really going to get us into it one of these days-."

"Just the messenger here, Jack- and what are you accusing me of this time?", Scooter inquired defensively.

Winters shook his head as he unsnapped the strap of the holster riding low on his right hip. He removed the chromed .44 revolver and handed it to Dalton by the barrel with the muzzle turned down.

"Freddy will explain. –You're going to love it."

Lyle appeared less affected by Winters' cryptic statement than Scooter as he watched the hand-off of the CO's sidearm, saying, "-Whell, then're ya intrested'd ta know that Skinny's bird's done fer tha day-. `Er starboard plasma stage converter is `bout shot ta hell, `n Ah ain't got no idea how she done managed to limp home-."

"-It's all that love you invest, Lyle.", Winters assured, "How are we otherwise?"

Lyle made jabs at the air with his finger in the direction of the other Valkyries that had returned with damage, "Cosmetic mostly-. Maybe somethin' y'll feel in the stick `n rudders, but nothin' systemic or structural. –Don't go pushin' yer luck neither, none'a ya though…"

"No promises.", Winters said, "Anything else?"

Lyle swelled with pride at accomplishing what other mere mortals would have found impossible, "Whell, ya got Dodger `n Cisco's birds back in the game… -Dodger `n Cisco too, I s'spect… Give me `nother three hours `n y'll have everyone from yesterday's injured list back in fightin' condition… The planes, anyway-."

Winters felt a mild sense of encouragement having expected to find out that he would be down an additional Valkyrie and teetering on the precipice of unit combat ineffectiveness only to discover he was one ship ahead of the condition in which he had landed.

"Freddy, we've got more pilots than planes. Feel out who needs a break and rotate them out for the next hop. They'll gripe, but give them that look you do so well-."

"Right-.", Dalton agreed, holding Winters' revolver awkwardly as he struggled with the challenge of what to do with the sidearm , "-Does that include us?"

"You, anyway.", Winters said as he began to withdraw from the small group, "If you're wanting to step off the line that is."

Lyle motioned to Dalton and received the revolver which he tucked through the strap of his tool and utility belt that was fastened over his coveralls, and in doing so achieved an appearance that was not totally out of character for the plane captain.

"What about you?", Dalton asked as Winters began to weave his way through and around desert scrub in the direction of the runway apron occupied by the Crimson Cavaliers and company.

"I'm thinking Mathias will probably shoot me on sight, so that will decide that. –Just don't put _Marilyn_ in the hands of any of the chaps who are forming a habit of being shot down. Lyle would be heartbroken."

"Okay then", Dalton called after the CO, "You have fun with that-."

The notion that a _parley_ with men with whom Winters' last encounter had nearly ended in an exchange of gunfire and whose last encounter prior to that had only marginally avoided an all-out aerial battle felt less wise with every step the squadron commander took towards it.

As he reached the midway point, the "bingo" as it were, and he sensed he had been noticed by the ASC Air Force officers- the decision felt outright foolish.

Mathias and a handful of others both familiar by sight and not were leaving their own runway apron to meet Winters now, so like a true "point of no return" there would be no going back.

In truth, there couldn't be.

As it happened, Winters met the four ASC pilots on a patch of open ground just large enough for all to stand without intruding on the personal space of one another- or blurring the division line of sides.

"Out for a walk, Winters?", Mathias asked, the thumb of his right hand tucking into the belt of his survival gear carrying rig just behind the holster for his sidearm.

"Postal delivery.", Winters said, raising the folder containing orders that he still carried, "-You're going to be thrilled, but what's the saying?- _Don't kill the messenger?.._ "

Mathias stepped forward to receive the folder with his left hand and took his right away from its proximity to his sidearm only to open it and quickly review the contents, saying as he did, "I know the phrase well. I don't think there's a saying covering not beating the messenger to within a pube's thickness of his life though. I even brought three of my meanest, _ugliest_ pilots for the possibility."

"I'm flattered.", Winters said drolly, "I didn't realize that I was imposing enough to warrant four-to-one. If we have to go that path, I promise to go easy on you all."

The largest if not the ugliest of Mathias's entourage, a sun-reddened major of clearly Northern European descent whom Winters recognized from the previous night's near-melee took half a step forward to the sound of his knuckles cracking in the process of his fingers closing into a fist.

He was stopped by Mathias who simply blocked him with the folder he was holding.

"What do you want, Winters?"

"It's what I _don't_ want that's at issue.", Winters replied, "Fate has a horrid sense of humor- _fine_. So, it looks like we're flying together again. I'm here to tell you officer to officer, pilot to pilot- you're to have the full, dedicated support from my chaps. I'll accept nothing less from them."

"That's reassuring, Winters- I feel safer already.", Mathias said flatly, "And what am I supposed to say now?"

Winters shook his head dismissively, "I don't care what you say now, Mathias. I've said what I came to say. You'll have the top cover you need to do your job. You just do it and that's enough for me. That's the peace. –But I'll give you this warning also-. If you try _anything_ shifty, make one aggressive move- _any of you_ \- against my chaps, and it will be either the end of you or the end of us. There will be no _middle ground_."

Mathias forced a laugh of disbelief, "You're amazing, Winters-. You talk peace but finish with a threat."

"Not a threat.", Winters corrected, "A _promise._ "

Mathias shrugged it off, replying, "Threat, promise- whichever… You'll be flying top cover, so I'd say you have the advantage. The decision is yours, isn't it?"

"The decision is everyone's.", Winters asserted, "Be aware of that."

Unflustered, Mathias relented with, "What did the man say?- _My soul is already charged with too much blood of thine…_ We won't break the truce, Winters- just see that you do your job too. Omission of action can be aggression too. –But hadn't you better be getting back to your squadron though? They'll be waiting on the good news."

"We're done then.", Winters concluded, feeling grateful to himself as he turned to return to his own ground for the clarity of mind and forethought to have left his revolver behind.

 _ **Rihl'Uhl Krizad**_

Sub-General Jekketh surveyed in silent satisfaction as the first indications of what he had anticipated began to manifest.

The micronian creatures were beginning to sense the inevitable.

As a species and judged by their technological and martial accomplishments, they were impressive and Jekketh granted them as much. In only a matter of years they had infused Zor's technologies into their own to create a unique if not slightly unsophisticated Robotechnology hybrid.

Their warriors showed cunning and savvy, and as demonstrated on the continent being most fiercely contested they were showing incredible ability in mecha-to-mecha combat on the individual and small unit levels.

This was not a warrior race on a _galactic_ scale however, and there was where Jekketh knew he held the advantage that would prevail with only a little persistence of effort and time. The aliens and their improvised martial technologies simply could not sustain the weight of the numbers that the 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl was bringing down upon them. Their strategy, evolving before Jekketh's eyes, was a well-organized surrender of ground that bled Jekketh's forces slowly while avoiding the direct clash that could end no other way than seeing the alien army crushed.

In the final analysis though, It was nothing more that the path that the enemy commander had chosen to the single possible outcome of defeat.

The command deck of Jekketh's ship continued to bustle about even as he immersed himself in the building cascade of the micronian defeat. Duty stations were for the most part double-staffed to ensure all action officer related details were addressed swiftly and no cracks in command exposed that the enemy might exploit. It was not a great concern, but Supreme General Krymina had emphasized the importance of the seizure of regions that were actively producing The Flower of Life _intact_ over all other concerns- even the immediate eradication of the indigenous military forces.

Jekketh was seeing the ideal opportunity to accomplish both tasks with no risk to the main.

Action General Bren's spearhead was driving the enemy and in so doing was chewing through his units at far greater rate than those of the enemy. This was not a matter of significance though. The Warriors of the "improved" norghil caste had been re-engineered for this very purpose.

Jekketh found himself less concerned now in how much Te'Dak Tohl blood might be spilled in the taking of this world and more that the Warriors of his caste might be deprived the right of spilling the enemy's.

It was not a _great_ concern, but more of an issue of morale that so much preparation and exercise should lead to so little a release of accumulated energy.

The satisfaction of his Warriors' egos however was not Jekketh's mandate.

"Commander Setken, advise Action General Bren that we will be attaching additional reserve forces to his command and that we will be identifying and securing forward landing zones for their landing. Shock assault units will be inserted behind enemy lines ahead of his advance to disrupt the cohesion of their movements and to soften their resistance."

"Make it clear that his objective is still the expedient seizure of the Flower of Life fields to the south. He is authorized to engage and destroy any micronian military units in his path, but not at the expense of speed to his objective. There will be time later to null out any enemy forces that we do not crush on the move."

Setken acknowledged each point of Jekketh's direction with a nod, speaking only when his superior was clearly done.

"What of Action General Hesthira's corps, Lord? There are indications that the enemy is massing forces to keep him locked in the terrain west of Bren's advance."

Jekketh's expression was clearly unconcerned as he replied, "I would not worry at length about Hesthira, Setken. –But at the same time, there is no advantage gained in not assisting him in his break-out into open terrain. See that sufficient forces are deployed to clear the path for him, and then order him to hold Bren's flank on the thrust south."

"Hesthira will likely be _liberal_ in his interpretation of those orders, Lord."

Jekketh was unperturbed by the observation, "I have no doubt of that, Setken."

 **Brasilia**

A paper map pinned to a half-sheet of splintering plywood with rat-gnawed edges leaning against darkened and dormant, state-of-the-art C2 equipment.

It was the allegorical image of the day and representative of the War so far as things were going for the "home team".

Echo Company had already done impressive work in scrounging the components of a complete command and control suite from the slumped wreck of Homestead Base's JOC, returning it to their improvised lair, and racking it in similarly transplanted server cabinets. The equipment was only several hours of wiring away from going "hot" for testing, and then God-willing, use as it was intended.

-But this exercise in IT improvisation and recovery had been interrupted by activities more in line with the core skill sets and interests of Rangers.

And for that, in this instance, a paper map would do just fine.

"Brasilia International Airport", Captain Nguyen said, motioning over an area of the map rich in detail, "-Roughly six kliks as the crow flies from our position. We, of course are _not_ crows, and _cannot_ fly- so, we have to negotiate the natural obstacles of this finger of Lake Paranoá Wood…"

Nguyen moved his hand in a broad sweep over the greater lake and all of its offshoots of woodland and smaller bodies of water that curved around central Brasilia from the northeast to the southwest.

"-Three options for approach-.", Nguyen continued pointing to the closest of four roads and bridges that hugged the southern curve of Brasilia and traversed the preserved areas of nature within the urban sprawl that had been planned by the civil engineers, "-The DF-002 highway- Harris-?"

The senior member and spotter of the company's sniper team, reported, "The road itself, sir is no good. It's been covered at all times we've observed by at least a squad of ditto infantry, plus one or two Battle Pods- depending… They're probably guarding against vehicle approach, but too many eyeballs to allow us to travel by the road. _Parallel_ though- say three hundred meters east or so-. Yeah, figure full enclosure suits to mask our IR signatures, plus the natural blind of the woodland-. That I think would be a minimal risk. "

Sergeant Harris slipped off of the stack of bags of concrete mix he had claimed as his own at the briefing's beginning to join Nguyen at the map indicating roughly the path he had just suggested.

"-Plus, on the south side of the woodland, that gives us access to this swanky little neighborhood- _used to have_ some kind of pre-UE embassy complex, _I think-_ which will allow our sticks to move under multiple avenues of cover to within two hundred meters of the airport grounds. Also, it will Fuller and me set up for overwatch and to cover with the M-163-."

Sergeant Major MacDonald started slightly at the mention of the almost-prohibitively heavy rail-accelerated rifle system, knowing that for the sniper team to bring it meant for Corporal Fuller at least the carrying of the massive .50 caliber anti-material weapon, his standard .350 Magnum rifle, plus the ammunition and peripheral gear for both. Harris would be only slightly less heavy in bearing the rail weapon's external power pack in addition to his spotter's gear and full combat load.

"Not that I mind having that kind of punch in our corner if we need it, but you really want to hump that beast six or seven kliks on a fast move?"

"We can hack it, Top.", Corporal Fuller said, pride peeking through his words, "-And like you said, we might need that punch."

"When'd you qualify on that monster last?", McDonald asked, speaking to the issue beyond whether or not the sniper team could actually lug the weapon to their proposed nesting position.

"Four months ago.", Sgt. Harris answered.

"Yeah-.", Fuller added, "Don't worry, Top, we'll put rounds on target if we have to-."

MacDonald shook his head with the imagining of bearing the weapon on a quick-time movement of over six kilometers, "Enough said then. –You two definitely found a home with the Rangers...'

"-So the route to the over-watch position is decided.", Nguyen continued, assuming control of his briefing again, "The assault sticks still have a bit further to go. The dittos have chosen the western end of the airfield, including the terminal and western airport complex to stockpile supplies and reserve mecha. Bivouac for what we can assume to be the resident garrison is along the eastern end of the air field, south side. Harris?- What are we looking at?"

Harris stepped in close to the map again, motioning over human construction at the east end of the runways that had been commercial aircraft hangar and support facilities.

"Figure four companies of ditto light mecha infantry who seem to be there for equal parts security and labor, plus about two squadrons of Fighter Pods and their pilots. They're all camped on the eastern grounds of the airport, but keep their mecha here on the tarmac of _maintenance row_ -. I wouldn't suggest poking that hornet's nest too much, Captain."

Nguyen grinned slightly like a schoolboy intent on a prank as he gazed over the map seeking confirmation for a plan's foundation, "Oh, we're going to _hit the hornet's nest with a stick_ , not _poke_ it, Sergeant- but on _our timetable_."

"Three phases to our incursion.", Nguyen continued, "Phase One- _approach and ingress._ Echo Company will move from the over-watch position, _Dugout,_ west through the natural cover to hook around to the supply and mecha stockpiles south of the ends of the runway- _First Base_. First, Second, and Fourth Platoons will plant their charges within these stockpiles. –Third Platoon, you have _Second Base_ \- planting your charges in or on as many garrison Battle Pods and Fighter Pods as you can."

"Naib Subedar Singh – your Gurkhas will have moved separately on Cyclone, riding heavy to approach to within striking distance of the garrison bivouac- _Third Base_ -."

At the risk of injecting levity into an earnest planning process, Staff Sergeant Byerly grumbled loud enough to be heard, "-Well, at least _someone's_ gettin' to _third base_ …"

Laughter rippled through the Rangers who were in the know, while Singh only looked puzzled.

"I don't understand…"

Whilite clapped a hand on Singh's shoulder, " _Baseball metaphor_ , Sri- I'll explain later."

"Oh.", Singh replied simply, clearly suspecting that there was more to it than sports.

Nguyen continued, "The _go_ word for Phase Two will be _Play Ball_. Singh, you and your men will whack the hornet's nest _hard-_. Get them up, get the dittos moving, and draw them east as best you can, or at the least allow them to see you exfiltrating east."

"Yes, sir.", Singh replied, "We can do that easily- but a handful of Cyclones against four companies of Battle Pods and two squadrons of Gnerls is an unbalanced match, _at best_ -."

Whilite chimed in again, "Relax Sri, we've got your back. I see where the Captain is going with this…"

Nguyen continued along that line of thought, "The dittos will be initiating pursuit of you and your men when some of them are going to get a nasty little surprise. Hopefully the shock and initial panic it causes in the rest will give you the distraction you require to cleanly break contact and return indirectly to base."

"Phase Two will only begin after First Base and Second Base affirm completion of their tasks- Third Base, when you affirm reaching your position. Code phrase will be, _Batter Up_.", Nguyen continued, "Phase Three, exfiltration and egress of Ranger sticks will coincide with the confusion caused by Singh and his men. If we can accomplish a clean break, we will exfiltrate due west before cutting north into Brasilia proper and returning to base. If contact is made with the enemy, we'll fake south and west to mask our base's actual, relative location. –I like this spot, and see no point in moving unless we have to."

"We'll cover and watch over you until you're clear, Captain.", Harris said unnecessarily, this being the sniper team's primary function in the operation.

"Code phrase, _Home Run_ will indicate successful disengagement from the dittos. Radio and net silence is to be observed from the moment we step off until _Batter Up._ Radio and net traffic during time-on-target is restricted to that of an urgent or emergency nature. Same-same for time between _Home Run_ and successful return to base. Tipping our hand at any point on this op could be harmful to everyone's retirement plans."

"Corporal Van Dorn, please brief the toys you have for us."

Van Dorn, who wore his sapper patch as proudly as his Ranger affiliation stepped forward with a bundle the size of a shoebox wrapped in heavy-duty black plastic that some recognized as being the same they had seen cargo riggers employ in sealing pallets for air-drop delivery. Duct tape of the same color sealed the bundle with only a familiar and cigarette-pack sized detonator affixed to the outside and a half-meter length of nylon rope protruding from within.

"-Okay, then-.", said the sapper, holding up his improvised explosive device, "What you have inside of this is four M-75 mini-missile warheads. Three plasma napalm and a single concussion warhead per charge to throw the nape. You're all familiar with the detonator from satchel and clearing charges- I've got a ten minute fuze set, but you can alter the time if there's the need. Like I said, you're familiar with this detonator, but so we're clear it's a three-pull lanyard trigger- one to enable, one to un-safety, and one to start the count. Don't be _anywhere_ near this thing when it goes off. The concussion charge'll burst your internal organs and scramble your brains up to a thirty meter radius, but you'd be vaporized by the plasma nape before anyone could see what a mess it made of you-."

"What's the rope for?", PFC Adams, from 2nd Platoon asked, not keen on dwelling on thoughts of having his innards scrambled and vaporized.

Van Dorn bounced the package he was holding slightly, "It's got a little heft to it- not a lot- but a little. It's a sling rope, so it can be heaved through the hatch of a resting Battle Pod, or into the open cockpit of a Gnerl-. That's unless anyone plans on bringing a ladder to get up that high-."

Sergeant Major MacDonald nodded his approval, "That's good thinking, Van Dorn- _take the rest of the day off_."

"Really?"

" _No_."

Unflustered by the hollow offer, Van Dorn continued, "The rope's there if you need it- don't take up skipping rope with it… Other than the normal concerns of not taking a laser or particle beam hit to the warheads, it's perfectly stable and rugged. Don't feel the need to test the limits though."

Captain Nguyen gave the corporal a nod acknowledging the completion of his briefing responsibilities and for him to step aside.

"That's about it, people. Remember, we're not winning the war tonight- just making a _first impression_ on our new neighbors. Mac will go over coms frequencies and encryption keys as well as combat rigs and loads."

"Equipment, gear, and weapons checks have ninety minutes. We're loaded and Oscar Tango Mike in two hours from _now_. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Good. Let's make believers of these ditto bastards.", Nguyen said, before adding, "-And remember, Echo Company-. _Kill something every day_ -."

The reply came in unison, "- _Even if it's small!_ "

 **Santiago Papasquiaro, Mexico**

From the vanishing point to the north to the equally distant limits of vision to the south, the peaks and jagged ridgelines, eastward facing slopes, and passes of the Sierra Madre were still alive with the flash of artillery shell and rocket detonations and ablaze with their resulting fires. A continuous roll of artificial thunder persisted and rolled down the slopes and into the flatlands, rising and falling in frequency and volume a step behind the distant explosions causing it.

Just over an hour before as the last substantial Zentraedi elements within the city had been displaced or destroyed by a surge of RDF-Army Destroids, the Zentraedi had initiated a surge of their own from within the mountain chain. Determined to break out, the tempo of units moving through passes and increasingly over the exposed ridges and eastern slopes had doubled- and then doubled again.

Direction from RDF-Army spotters had seen a comparable increase in the enfilade from distant fire bases and rocket batteries, but within the gaps of saturation fire the enemy had gained ground outsides of the confines of the mountains and into the foothills and open land farther east.

Where an hour earlier the sounds of incoming artillery barrages had only carried clearly through the deserted streets and back alleys of Santiago Papasquiaro, the concussion of bursting shells and rocket warheads was now proximal enough to physically shake both the ground and manmade structures.

Colonel Neary, commanding the 77th Regiment charged with holding the ground surrounding Santiago Papasquiaro and damming the flow of Zentraedi could not see the increasing dulling of the sun's light by smoke carried on the prevailing breeze from within his command vehicle, but was aware of the rise in tremors from nearing.

It was fortunate that he and his staff had the preoccupation of plugging a growing number of holes through which the enemy was pouring with insufficient numbers of defenders to keep them from dwelling on the implications of directed artillery fire falling closer and closer to the mobile CP.

It was not unlike Neary's many family trips to a strip of South Carolina beach as a boy when he would build high a sand wall to defend his younger sister's castle from an incoming tide. Every time he would build the wall higher and thicker knowing that it would hold against the foamy rush- and every time that certainty would last only until the first meeting of the sea and his barricade.

The 77th Regiment was not a sand wall however, nor were the Zentraedi merely a breaking wave on the seashore. Their meeting had more dire consequences.

But "Oden"- General Renkin- was insistent that this ground be held.

Units from the rear areas continued to arrive at intervals, as well as nearly continuous, rotating cycles of air support of both fixed wing and rotary wing varieties. -But from Neary's command vehicle, it was gaining the familiar feel of his childhood in patching holes in a wall with fistfuls of sand.

With the "God's Eye" view Neary was privileged to, he was able to see how Oden was justified in the belief that Santiago Papasquiaro was a position worth possessing. Opposite of the largest pass through the mountains, operationally designated "Larry", it was a strongpoint that could command the open country up to the foothills west and that the enemy would have to bleed heavily to overrun.

The problem Neary saw developing was that even while the Zentraedi were still making attempts to assault the small city directly by "the book" of their battle doctrine in joining the fight where they found it, they were also exploring other opportunities.

Probe forces having formed from the remnants of units that had paid the cost of braving artillery and rocket fire to escape the confined spaces of The Sierra Madre had already made several attempts to bypass Santiago Papasquiaro to both the north and the south. The flank guards of the 77th though fewer in number in each case than the probing Zentraedi forces had managed to thwart the breakouts with the gunship support of several Aztec squadrons.

-But the enemy's intent was clear. He meant to fight, but it was a fight elsewhere.

Neary would have to stretch his lines north to south if he were to maintain any semblance of containment.

"McCormick, how many Destroids with functional weapons systems do we have undergoing spot repairs in the rear right now?", Neary asked, feeling himself mentally winding up for a toss of the dice.

"Thirty-seven at last report, Colonel.", the major replied.

"-And combat ineffective but _ambulatory_ mecha?"

"Forty-six, sir.", McCormick replied having just received a report from the repair area set well back within the cover of the city.

"I want that yard emptied _now_ , McCormick.", Neary instructed in an even tone, "Move anything capable of putting rounds and missiles downrange up front and at the center of the city's defense line, and for every one we put up I want two fully functional Destroids pulled off. Those mecha coming off the line are to form up and move out to the north and south. Split up the 41st in reserve and get them on the march too."

McCormick understood his superior's intent but was dutiful in pointing out, "Sir, that might invite a direct assault on our center."

Neary cocked his head to one side as though weighing his options, "-And if the enemy manages to move around our flanks in any strength, we'll be under threat of attack from the rear. No, with gunship and air support the center will hold. –And plus, you're going to see that it looks like we've got a battalion in reserve marching that combat ineffective mecha around the city interior. Let the enemy get glimpses and the hint of a lot of movement. Savvy?"

The major nodded, "Yes sir, we'll make it look like we're sittin' on a corps."

Neary motioned to McCormick, holding him a moment longer.

"Two more things-. Raise the commanders of the reinforcing units en route and have them join up with our forces in the open directly- there's no point in bringing them in through the city's rear lines. Second, we need something a little heavier to thin the enemy's numbers in the mountain passes than attack aircraft. Get Oden on the horn and request Fat Boy be tasked."

"-On the double-quick, sir.", McCormick complied, turning to staff to coordinate ordered actions.

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt's aspirations had narrowed considerably since his first experience combatting the aliens of this world the previous night.

On a minimal excuse for a road in a similar pass to the one where he now found himself, Tahlt had felt inexplicably that if he could only live a life dedicated to Duty and The Warrior's Code, he would have lived an existence of value.

After an intense barrage of indirect projectile fire from the aliens had liquefied the side of the mountain and also the ground beneath his Regult's feet sending he and his squad tumbling to the valley floor below, and after the discovery that of his entire platoon with whom he'd trained to the point of being a single entity that he was the sole survivor- Tahlt had aspired to at least be allowed by Fate to live long enough to _engage_ the enemy in combat.

Now, as the quaking from yet another in a series of seemingly unending indirect fire attacks subsided and as the loose soil, vegetation, rock, and mechanical and organic carnage of obliterated comrades and their mecha was still in the process of sliding downhill- Tahlt aspired only to be out of the confines of the valleys and chasms if only to die suddenly on level ground.

-And even this inglorious and self-serving wish seemed at this moment to be improbable less than a hundred Regult paces from the visible summit of what Tahlt's navigation system told him was the last ridge between himself and his diminished goal.

Coming by the Regult he now piloted was in itself a disgraceful act, but one that Tahlt had felt no regrets about at the time. An improvised rallying and staging area in an overrun micronian habitation cluster many atohls back and not considerably distant from where Tahlt's unit had met its end had been the first ground that had allowed Tahlt to bring his barely functional Regult to a stop without fear of being trampled under by his own advancing army.

A guard made of the remnants of other units whose fate had been similar to Tahlt's had been spliced together and posted for the pointless purpose of holding the micronian settlement against a possible enemy counterattack- even as a sizable portion of an entire corps pressed through it. Unnecessary as it was, the decision had been made at some level and the unit had been standing watch since. –And to their credit there was an added degree of certainty that the enemy forces whose smashed mecha and mortal remains still smoldered from the battle that had driven others of their kind from the settlement would be of no danger to the force movement.

Tahlt's Regult had stumbled into the micronian settlement in this disposition with only minutes of functional life to it. When it had succumbed passively to critical overheating amongst the crushed heaps of what had been dwellings, Tahlt had felt near panic in the process of dismounting.

How many comrades' nearly unrecognizable forms had he seen in only a short distance of mountain pass? A dozen? More? –Twice that, surely, all having been crushed into a pulverized state under the eager feet of other comrades blinded to the deed by the promise of battle.

Tahlt had vowed not to Fate but to himself that this would not be his ending, and to ensure that- he needed another Regult.

He had gotten one- and if he did not reflect too deeply on the full mandates of The Warrior's Code, Tahlt could almost justify to himself how he had come to possess it.

The sole guard keeping the entryway to the settlement had been all too willing to dismount his own Regult with the intention of assisting with the removal of an undamaged coolant return valve from the ample selection of wrecked Regults that lay about and for a replacement of Tahlt's.

The first toppled combat pod the warrior had opted to check was also his last, and now served to hide the evidence of what Tahlt had done to acquire his pristine Regult. Under the constant rumble of advancing mecha the warrior had never heard the sub-lieutenant's quick approach with his _kruvok_ blade drawn and raised, nor did any of the passing warriors noticed the its repeated fall.

As Tahlt's ill-gotten Regult struggled with this last ascent standing between the sub-lieutenant and Fate's judgment, he too struggled with the fresh memory of fratricide that would not leave the back of his mind. Only the focus required to keep his Regult moving forward and the promise of Duty performed just beyond the ridge provided refuge.

" _Who's in command here?!.."_

The snarling, bellowed inquiry came as a Nacht-Rau combat suit came to a crushing landing on the slope within twenty paces of Tahlt's Regult, threatening the last measure of disturbance needed to send the whole hillside cascading down into the valley from which Tahlt had fought so hard to ascend.

Tahlt's identification system showed the pilot to not only be an action commander in rank, but of Serhot Ran in unit affiliation. The sub-lieutenant's heart fluttered in a moment of panic as the personification of vengeance had seemed to have come for him for his recent treachery-.

But of course this was not so…

" _I asked, who is in command here?!.."_

"I am, Lord!", Tahlt replied before he was able to stop himself.

He had not seen a Glaug Officer's Pod since two hills before where a particularly heavy fall of indirect projectile fire had blown it and its lieutenant occupant into a flaming storm of scattering debris.

Action Commander Kevtok quickly overcame the disappointment that the responder to his question was a sub-lieutenant whose Regult looked as though it could have come off a Factory production line only this morning, and who was probably only two seasons ahead of it in age and experience.

It was no matter though- he needed only warriors willing to fight and with a moderate ability to act effectively as a unit.

"I have nearly a regiment's strength of unit fragments and stragglers massed in the low hills east of the foot of this ridge, Sub-Lieutenant-. You are to push as many Regults over this ridge to join up with the others as you can muster in ten minutes and then join up and report to Point Lieutenant Dirsh at the front yourself. We've suffered enough casualties without benefit, _we're breaking out-._ "

A blast of thrust from the combat suit's thrusters hurled it skyward in an arcing vault over the crest of the ridge where Tahlt lost sight of the Serhot Ran officer.

Fate, it seemed, had spoken and was not done with Tahlt yet.

" _All Warriors, rally on_ _me! We have orders!..._ "

Perhaps it was an indication of what was to be "typical" in this war, or maybe it was just karma, Winters thought, that he should be flying with two units who the last time he had shared the air with them had either been intent on killing him or had orders to if he were not to comply with their instructions to return him to base for court martial.

Winters had had some vague recollection of Lieutenant Commander Kusunoki by name at the time earlier in the day when the captain from Flight Ops had presented him with Knight Hawk Squadron's assignment. It had not been until the 623rd had joined up in flight with Kusunoki's Stormy Petrels that their shared history had clicked.

The Grim Reaper riding the inky bird that was the herald of mishap which emblazoned the tails of the squadron along with their motto, "Bad Times Are Coming", brought their role as the Knight Hawks' escort out of The Control Zone months before and into quietly guarded disgrace for "The Incident" back clearly to Winters.

Whether Kusunoki recognized 623rd Squadron was not as clear.

Winters felt no reason to bring up the subject at the moment though.

 _Mathias_ and his Crimson Cavaliers on the other hand-.

There was no doubt of memory and their intent during their last airborne meeting to be had.

There was only the question of whether their bloodlust today was reserved for the Zentraedi?

War always presented varied and interesting ways to die.

"Knight Hawk One, Mirage-.", called the air controller from a distant AWACS, "Showing you three minutes out from the sandbox. No proximal airborne bandits tracking. Be advised however, we've had intermittent contact with possible Green Bandits in the target area. EM hash from friendly ground forces is making tracking and IFF sketchy below angels one - keep your head on a swivel. -Transferring tactical command authority to Oden at this point. Good hunting, Knight Hawk One…."

Winters glanced over the tactical display that occupied is central MFD screen, noting as expected that icons indicating both friendly and hostile contacts were winking in and out like the random flicker of lights on a Christmas tree. Ground-based EW units were filling the air with an electromagnetic haze that prevented alien space cruisers in LEO from gauging the number and pinpointing the locations of friendlies within and around the pueblo of Santiago Papasquiaro and relaying that information through their less sophisticated but still effective C2 systems. It also had the unfortunate effect of blurring the normally hawk-like vision of AWACS and JSTARS radar systems alike.

And while Mirage could say and show with great certainty that there were no Gnerl "Red Bandits" within a 180Km radius, they could not- as they had shared- speculate on Zentraedi power armor "Green Bandits" lurking somewhere in the EM fog.

At a shorter range, the powerful phased array radar and IFF systems of the Valkyries would be able to easily pick out the enormous RCS signature of the formidable power armor that pilots and Destroid Drivers alike were rapidly growing wary of. –But at that range, the Valkyries were also within the reach of the power armor's weapons, and at best on even footing as advantage went.

Winters had long come to peace with avoiding the "fair fight" whenever possible- he preferred the odds _heavily_ in his pilots' favor. Let those who didn't have to put their asses on the line and do the fighting judge him as they may…..

"Roger that, Mirage. Putting our faith in Oden now-. Be a chap though and sing out if any of that Red Bandit trade starts to drift close."

"Will do, Hawk One. –We'll watch your back."

-And there were Red Bandits to be had.

To the northeast, well back from the leading edge of the Zentraedi advance they swarmed in clusters, too great in number to easily count. If Winters had been forced to describe the Gnerls' collective activities, it would have been something along the line of " _dedicated presence / half-hearted top cover_ ".

The Gnerls maintained a dense umbrella over the thick of the advancing Zentraedi, but were less zealous in venturing forward to cover the "bleeding edge" units. Certainly they offered modestly effective, stand-off missile cover against fixed RDF Army and ASC ground positions where they presented the most stubborn resistance in the path of the enemy advance. They were also an effective deterrent to RDF and ASC attack aircraft and helicopter attack. –But never did they attempt to venture in force out ahead of the leading units of their ground forces' advance.

It was a wise decision.

Outnumbered as the combined forces of the Gemini Coalition were, they still had deployed sufficient mobile SAM battery units to hurl merciless eaves of missiles into the sky. Gnerls surviving SAM wave attacks would then still find themselves facing RDF and ASC air power that had from the first moments of the War proven their ability to fair well even against long odds.

It seemed that the Zentraedi were learning from their enemy as well and adjusting appropriately.

Gratifying as it was to know that the "home team" could still grapple with the disproportionately large invading juggernaut, Winters could not escape the disquieting knowledge that the Zentraedi were _allowing_ the losses of their own- incurred in part by their failure to apply adequate air cover. They were allowing the losses, because their numbers allowed them to.

In skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle the Zentraedi were accepting heavy if not _grievous_ losses to attain trivial gains and in some cases no perceivable tactical gain at all. By human standards the aliens' disregard was incomprehensible unless one chose to see it through traditional Zentraedi eyes.

The alien commander had the luxury of bleeding a unit dry and then simply replacing it with support that continued to land from orbit days after initial enemy planetfall.

Conversely, The Gemini Coalition was already committed at a level of near-maximum effort. Losses were far fewer in the Gemini ranks, but were as difficult to replace as the enemy's losses were easy.

It was not going to stop either.

No one at the higher levels of the Terran command structure had said it openly, but tactical decisions had begun to demonstrate a radical shift in thinking mid-morning.

Fighters and attack aircraft were no longer the only ships in the sky. Transports that had scarcely gotten a rest from the immense task of hauling innumerable tons of war machines and supplies to ASC Durango Base, were now engaged in an equally frenzied scramble to move the most critical supplies and units further south.

"Strategic Withdrawal" was the term being used.

To Winters, _retreat_ was _retreat_ no matter what name it went by.

And in the interest of keeping the _Strategic Withdrawal_ from becoming an utter route, it was necessary to keep the Zentraedi who had deftly moved in mass through The Sierra Madre chain from breaking out to advance and attack along a second axis.

 _Buggered_ was the word that came most readily to Winters' mind about the overall situation- but the beauty was that he could focus on and was only responsible for the mission he had been assigned and was currently on.

Certainly the Zentraedi might claim the day as theirs at the end of it, but a handful of Veritech and Spector pilots inbound on Santiago Papasquiaro were going to make sure that the day would not be enjoyed by all Zentraedi and that it would not come cheaply.

"Oden, we're at your disposal. Call it."

With the benefit of hindsight, Winters recognized that he might have chosen an alternate word to _disposal,_ but his meaning carried through.

"Knight Hawk One, this is Oden-. We need containment and reduction of hostiles in grid-designate, _Larry._ Fat Boy is inbound, ETA twelve mikes – but containment is critical until that time. Over."

Winters would have preferred to have made the correction to Oden himself, but Mathias was already keyed up for a fight and from his squadron's position in trail and slightly below the covering Valkyries, he responded.

"Oden, Cavalier One – don't be so quick to hand our fun off to an RDF buddy. We'll take that one on."

"Cavalier, Oden- my bad – it's all yours. Commence your run when ready. Weapons free- there are no friendlies forward of the western city limits. Copy?"

"I copy.", Mathias responded, "Just waiting for my top cover to move out."

Winters was seeing Santiago Papasquiaro now as more than a sooty smudge rolling toward him on the horizon. Streets and structures glowing with flame were becoming distinguishable as well as the zip of tracer and energy weapon fire between imbedded RDF-Army mecha and Zentraedi several kilometers distant spread across a two to three kilometer swath of foothills to the west. All the while, Regults could be seen cresting the ridge beyond and dashing under cover of their own fire toward the defilade of the terrain below through a steady if not constantly intense fall of artillery rounds.

Mirage's warning of Green Bandits clung to Winters, and was a warning that weighed heavily upon him.

It was possible that the power armor was holding somewhere in the rear enemy lines in the maze of canyons and passes, and that if they elected to remain there while the massing Regults in the foothills softened the RDF defenders of Santiago Papasquiaro, that they could be dealt with by a C-17 with the operational callsign of "Fat Boy" that was only twelve minutes out with a particularly nasty surprise occupying its cargo bay.

Winters had fought these new Zentraedi power armor suits on several occasions now, and while he himself had helped to discover that their pilots were not Quadranos- they were something akin to the female elite and therefore were not likely to be satisfied with lingering in the rear when there was violence to be had forward.

No, if there were Green Bandits, they were somewhere near and probably eager for an excuse to fight.

"Cavalier One, Knight Hawk One-. Throttle back and take an orbit. I want to take an element of my ships low and fast over your target area… I want to see what we flush out of the hedge."

There was a pause, a long one that was uneasy even through the filter of radio communication, "Hawk One, what's your game?"

"No game, Cavalier One- but I'm thinking that if those Green Bandits are down in those hills, you'll want them coming after us instead of having at your flank as you line up on that pass for an attack run. At worst, you get to see me wrong. At best, you get to see them blow my ass out of the sky-."

" _Win-win_.", Mathias said with all too much satisfaction, "-Go get `em, Knight Hawks-."

Winters didn't have to hear Dalton say it to hear Dalton say it-.

.. _Asshole…_

"Oden, Knight Hawk One. Have you any eyes on those foothills just northeast of _Larry_?"

"Negative, Knight Hawk One. We know they're beginning to crowd in there, but we have no eyes on. –Our UAV support got snuffed hours ago-."

Winters had only been looking for confirmation of what he knew in that growing knot in his gut. He could see the indications of a trap. It was only a matter of how to spring it. Artillery would have been the best option, but every rifled tube that could reach was dropping rounds into the thick of the Zentraedi who were still bottled up in the mountain passes and emerging on the ridgeline or in the gaps to escape.

That left the elements of the mission package that were not immediately critical- and at the moment that was the _top cover_ elements.

"Vice, Skinny, Blitz", Winters called, "-You're with me. Keep wide intervals- let's not do the dittos' work for them. Buster, take on my second section and keep mid-level and ready to clear our tails. –I think we're going to need it."

"Knight Hawk One, Petrel One. We'll hold high and ready."

"You read my mind, Takeo…", Winters agreed mildly disappointed that Kusunoki was not of the breed of Valkyrie Driver who sought to poke peril in the eye-. As Winters and his element pulled away from the rest of the Valkyries and began to nose-down and throttle up toward the target area, he wasn't sure he would have refused an offer from the commander to take the task if it had been made.

"-When they come up-.", Winters warned his element as Santiago Papasquiaro approached to starboard and the element's flight level dropped low enough for the details of the savaged city to become clearly visible, "-Break immediately for the ceiling and think of nothing but gaining altitude and not catching a missile up the bum. We're the bait, our chaps and Takeo's are the hook…"

As the element of Valkyries drew even with the RDF-Army stronghold, the Zentraedi presence in the foothills to the west became visible. On the reverse slopes of the more substantial hills, the cyclops skull-like shapes of Regults could be seen to rise up long enough to exchange fire with the RDF forces in Santiago Papasquiaro before retreating back again below the cover of the terrain like the targets in a carnival shooting gallery. Exchanged fire varied in tempo bi-directionally, sometimes zipping back and forth as precise, lightning jabs while other times erupting into a storm of savage slugging.

At the moment where Winters thought that the standoff between the aliens and the Army might distract the aliens sufficiently to preserve his Valkyries' element of surprise in the approach, an anonymous, sharp-eyed Zentraedi warrior spotted their element and hastily aimed particle beam bolts began to zip by both near to the flight and wide.

"- _And now they're shooting at us…_ ", Vice noted in a hum-drum tone as his fighter dipped low to evade by chance a random fusillade of particle beams.

"It's _weapons free_ , chaps-.", Winters said, avoiding the temptation of immediate gratification that would have been the emptying of his weapons stations onto the rapidly approaching hillside, "-You _can_ shoot back."

The sortie was far too young and the potential for a real furball far too great to waste missiles on low-value, high-abundance ground targets such as Regults- even if they were setting the air afire trying to knock down his element.

-But Winters had no qualms about the expenditure of an unlimited supply of laser energy.

A return hail of laser fire replied to the outgoing fire from the earthbound Regults as the Valkyries descended through a thousand meters on the approach of a high speed strafing run whose purpose was at best to aggravate through killing.

Winters watched the hillside two kilometers out slowly vanish beneath a cloud of dust and superheated gases created by explosive evaporation of rock, soil, and vegetation at the terminal points of laser bolts.

Regults yielded a more impressive end for lasers fired.

Had he been the rookie he had been with the RAF in The Global War many years ago, Winters might have made a point of engaging those Regults that appeared to present the most immediate threat. Age and acquired callousness had long since replaced any sense of sportsmanship however.

The _easiest_ targets were those that were reaching the crest of the ridge from the reverse side as they were both unaware of the danger posed by the approaching Valkyries, and also limited to a single axis of movement for that moment transitioning from the ascent to the descent of the same hill's western side. Winters saw some combination of fire from Skinny and Blitz knock three Regults that appeared to be moving as a unit off of the crest of the hill like cans shot off a fence rail by an aspiring gunslinger.

A focused stream of laser bolts would pass over the unsuspecting or slow acting Regult, giving off a shower of sparks and licks of burning terilium flame before the lightly armored mecha would topple- presumably with a dead, giant alien at the controls. –And at a distance with moral governors turned off, it was a great deal of fun.

Winters saw the three fall to Skinny and Blitz on the edge of his vision as he focused on the slightly more challenging task of tracking the aiming reticule within his visor over the lead Regult of a pair both engrossed in maintaining footing on their downslope sprint.

At the depression of the trigger and without so much as a quiver through _Marilyn'_ s airframe as a result, the Valkyrie's laser cannons spat a dual stream whose first bolt struck home before the second in a series of hundreds was emitted from the muzzle lenses. Flame spurted from multiple penetration points along the right crown of the Regult's curved upper hull as combustion occurred somewhere within and the mecha went over in a rigid state of mechanical _rigor mortis_ in an uncontrolled tumble downhill.

The companion of the lead felled by Winters skittered to a halt reflexively but with some difficulty as seen in the rising dust trails its feet created in doing so. With the admirable dexterity in the short stop the Regult managed to glance up to face Winters- peering directly at him with an accusatory glare from its single red eye before the next burst fired by the Valkyrie pilot caught it squarely through and about the same multi-functional sensor.

This Regult too teetered and fell into an unopposed roll that resumed its pursuit of its leading companion toward their original objective of level ground far below.

The sky all around was lit by the wild panic fire of Regults just now reaching the ridge's crest and of those now rushing on the downslope.

Past this first hill Winters knew the best chances of a Regult scoring a hit on one of his ships was exponentially diminished. They were too low, moving too fast, providing the enemy too little time to react no matter how hopping mad they'd become and how far back in the enemy lines that warning of the approaching Veritechs had spread.

The point, of course had not been to arouse the wrath of common Zentraedi light mecha driver, but to thrash the bushes for something more substantial and dangerous. While there was no immediate sign of Green Bandits and Winters allowed a shadow of doubt to his suspicions that had prompted him to lead his element on this effort, the instinctive portion of his mind was still crackling electric.

As the crest of the hill just strafed into turmoil loomed and the foothills of the mountains dropped beneath and behind, it was this thought that had him on edge and his head on a swivel.

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt had witnessed the last few moments of approach of the strange looking micronian aircraft as the feet of his yet unscratched Regult transitioned from extreme mountain slope to the more gently inclined base that led into foothills only a short mecha's sprint east.

The thought of reaching the base of the mountain- of reaching escape- had been in question for many eternal seconds as Combat Pods on all points around Tahlt had been picked off or shot to tatters by the small flight of enemy fighters. There had been ample fire returned by all on the eastern facing slope, and to a lesser extent by those comrade Warriors who had already made it to temporary cover in the foothills now ahead of the sub-lieutenant. The alien aircraft, ugly as they were, were also fast and presented a minimal target aspect while on the attack. Coupled with a Warrior's natural inclination to maintain footing at all costs, even thought this was accomplished mostly by the Regult itself, left little mental focus to dedicate to anything but wild return fire.

Tahlt was certain that the distraction of counterattack had been enough to save at least one of the six out of the fifteen who had started down the slope with him and who had actually reached the base alive.

The Regult was not intended to independently combat air targets with a high level of effectiveness, the warrior knew, and the fact that six had slipped vastly uneven odds to join in action that _they were intended for_ -. This had to be some acknowledgment of Fate's favor.

Serhot Ran in their Nacht-Rau combat suits however were _ideally adept_ at dealing with such threats, and as the action commander who had spurred Tahlt into action just below the peak of the mountain minutes before had promised- the foothills had an ample number in concealment.

Tahlt sensed the moment when the micronian fighters realized that the advantage had shifted- no- _had been ripped_ away from them as their direction suddenly changed skyward. Their noses had pitched up to the near vertical and the landscape was blasted with the shock of their engines throttling up to maximum thrust. –And this had been the last Tahlt had seen of them as they vanished into the obscurity of opening distance as seen through smoke-dense air.

It was no matter to the sub-lieutenant.

What he _wanted to see_ followed immediately, almost indistinguishably from the alien fighters' retreat.

A swarm of missiles erupted skyward from all points in the foothills and began to gain and converge on targets that were losing distinct shape to altitude and becoming specks. –And before the vengeful weapons fired in reply had slipped from sight, the air exploded again- this time with the thunder of Nacht-Rau boosters that took the combat suits rocketing into pursuit.

These were welcome sounds and sights to Tahlt who as quickly realized he had no time to appreciate them.

His orders- the orders of all around him in the foothills- were non-specific, but the objective was understood. The enemy was entrenched to the east, but this was from where Fate had chosen the call of battle to come and Tahlt ahd made a promise to himself to carry out his Duty.

"- _God-damn you for being right at all the wrong times, Jack!.."_ , snarled Vice, the strain of G-forces building past six times the normal effects of gravity clear in his voice as the Earth fell away beneath the Valkyrie element.

Winters was in muted agreement with Vice's condemnation, but was more concerned by the threat warnings sung to him by _Marilyn'_ s detection systems. Searching aft as the Valkyries slipped the bonds of Earth revealed quickly the source of the warnings. At a glance, Winters spotted five, perhaps six hulking forms in pursuit and matching incredibly the rate of climb of his fighters.

 _Green Bandits_ -. The same that he had insisted on flushing from the terrain scarcely two minutes earlier; a hunch he now kicked himself for following.

The power armors' radars grappled with the Valkyries' automatic ECM systems to acquire the Veritechs. Had they met head-to-head, the Valkyries would have already burned out the sensor systems of the Zentraedi combat suits, but with their tails presented it was not a tactical option.

As the Valkyries corkscrewed through 8,000 meters, the Zentraedi similarly recognized the futility of missile attack. - _Energy weapons_ however were less limited by countermeasure.

Streams of plasma bolts swept by Winters through his upper hemisphere, swaying and undulating like energy tentacles groping blindly for something to grasp. Stick and rudder and a little dumb luck allowed Winters a moment's evasion from the fiery pulse of energy rounds- but only a moment's. Two streams of bolts swept back at him, rounding and barely missing the tip of his port wing and moving toward his Valkyrie's centerline as he counter-rolled out of a near miss.

Winters' mind raced for his best chance of survival-.

A vertical rolling-scissor wouldn't work against an adversary that could change with ease without sacrifice of his initiative into a hover, and transitioning from the vertical to the horizontal would expose a broader aspect of the Valkyrie making it an easier target.

Even a configuration change into Guardian mode- to suddenly reverse and bring the Veritech's full weapons load to bear was ill-advised and in fact a worse option. -It combined both drawbacks of taking the fight into the horizontal with the momentary loss of all maneuver associated with the configuration change.

" _Buster, we are purely defensive!.. Clear our tails!"_

"-Six seconds, Jack-.", came Dalton's reply like the very voice of Salvation, "Break on my hack and bring your ships east to help us clear you-. In _three, two, one- HACK!"_

As 9,400 meters of altitude opened beneath, Winters hauled the stick back into his gut and with a change in the direction felt the crush of G-forces as _Marilyn_ re-entered horizontal flight. To starboard, Vice was leveling out having eased slightly ahead of Winters.

As Winters went to check his element to port, a flash of pale orange bleached out the deep blue of sky….

Delaney knew he was in trouble before _what_ the trouble was had completely registered with him.

He had been pulling back through 45̊ -to inverted, level flight and already anticipating Winters' next order which would be to dive back at their pursuers to rejoin the squadron in offensive action when an enormous and invisible foot in an iron boot kicked him squarely in the rump.

The force had been enough to knock the wind out of him in a yelp that clenched teeth had not been fully successful in muting. More disturbing than the momentary, airless sensation in his chest- his Valkyre felt suddenly "loose" in flight- its control surfaces no longer biting into the oncoming airflow. Delaney's brain and instinct told him faster than the warning systems of his Valkyrie of the ship's mortal wounding- a conclusion cinched as the world began roll and pitch wildly with the brownish-tan of earth blurring into the blue of sky as clothes seen tangled in a tumble through the window of a laundromat drying machine.

Familiar voices, all strangely blended into a chorus of panic urged the same thing-.

The same act Delaney fought to execute when the fighter would not respond to either stick or rudder to null its wild motions.

Feeling as though it was draped in curtains of lead for its weight, Delaney still found enough mastery of his arm to search for the ejection handle-.

" _Skinny's hit!_ ", Dalton blurted, his report mingled with the same report by the other Knight Hawks who had been rushing in to prevent just such a thing.

How any of Winters' section had avoided the dense fusillade of energy fire rushing skyward past them on all sides was a true mystery to the squadron XO, unexplainable by skill, luck, or a combination of both- yet evidently still fact.

Fact for all but Delaney, that was, whose Valkyrie had taken one of the insidious plasma bolts somewhere in its tail assembly- shattering it- and at the same time breeching the port engine's plasma stage which accounted for a fireball that the rest of the fighter miraculously slipped.

Survival of the pilot was not assured however-. Even before it had gone wildly out of control, it had been clear that the Valkyrie would not be making a controlled return to ground.

Skinny needed to get out-.

Dalton was unsure as to whether his was one of the voices urging Delaney to eject- but he was understandably distracted with self-preservation by this time.

The dozen or so Green Bandits that had been in pursuit of Winters' section were fully aware that they now were being threatened-. Dalton had charged in with the rest of the squadron to clear the endangered element's tails, and had done so with the threat of the intercept only. Not a shot had been fired.

The Green Bandits were not waiting to be fired upon however, and were as Zentraedi could be expected to maneuvering to make a direct merge with the balance of Knight Hawk Squadron.

Multiple alarms wailed in Dalton's ears telling him of an invisible duel of attack radar and electronic countermeasures happening automatically between his fighter and the enemy. As his own radar struggled to acquire the rapidly closing combat suits, the pilot realized that both the offensive and defensive struggles were going both ways.

Given time, limited combat experience promised that the Valkyries would win the sensor battle- but the Zentraedi had clearly learned this too and were not meaning to grant the required time.

As the range to the flight of Green Bandits closed to just over a kilometer, the enemy was positioned for the fight that _they_ wanted.

The bandits broke by pairs from the loose cluster in a seemingly impossible transition from vertical ascent to horizontal flight behind a screen of missiles that erupted from the power armor like enraged wasps from their nest to fill the sky in a swarm.

Knight Hawk Squadron scattered nanoseconds before the merge- no other option that offered a chance of survival having presented itself.

Valkyries and Nacht-Rau combat suits spilled in all directions as unit-level tactics fell away and individual struggles to the death began.

The _knife fight_ was now joined.

Dalton rolled his fighter onto its starboard side in reflex as a pair of short range missiles fired from one of any of a possible four Zentraedi combat suits leapt up from nowhere into his immediate path of flight. An impossible and unintentional display of aerobatic skill followed as the XO's fighter, _Taz_ , passed through the broad margin between the ECM-blinded weapons.

The miracle of the feat was occurring to Dalton as the missile passing high over his dorsal aspect detonated unexpectedly, scattering fragmentation shards through the air and pelting the airframe multiple times.

Preacher, who had been holding Dalton's wing loosely to port and who had been in no danger from either weapon had seen the scrape with calamity and reacted in the way that Preacher could be expected to.

" _Darn it!..."_ , Wayne blurted in his approximation of profanity.

 _Darn it!... Yeah, no shit- darn it!.._

Dalton's mind raced both with checking his own tail to verify he was not trailing a bandit and with the incorruptible governance that Major Eugene Wayne had over his words even in moments of extreme duress...

The sky at all point was thick with Green Bandits and woefully thin with Valkyries, telling Dalton that the squadron was both outnumbered and on the _interior_ of the fight- a place that even a rookie knew not to be. There was a dire need for assistance, and quickly.

" _Takeo, get your ass into this furball and engage, NOW!"_

"We're tied on in fifteen seconds, Buster.", the squadron leader of The Stormy Petrels replied, sounding too calm for Dalton's liking.

-Of course, he wasn't being actively shot at- _yet._

Kusunoki's momentarily detached perspective of the fight did yield a benefit, appreciable to even Dalton in his aggravated state as the squadron leader relayed the urgent observation, "Knight Hawks, try to pull your trade north-! Your bandits have friends coming up off the deck, and they're about twelve seconds from level!"

There was a certain beauty to the scene of combat developing above Delaney as his parachute carried him swiftly down through the thin air toward _terra firma_.

Somehow disjointed from the reality of violence, the spectacle was strangely serene.

Valkyries and Zentraedi _X-Rau_ power armor wove the sky full of gossamer contrails in the process of their intricate and deadly aerial dance. In its majestic sprawl that was reaching the broadest points of the sky, it somehow did not seem disconnected to more ominous roar of engines and boom of explosions that faded and out of sync by distance with its cause.

The serenity of the spectacle was only preserved if perceived through eyes unindoctrinated by experience with the reality.

Delaney felt the panic of helplessness- seeing the fever pitch to which the air duel was building and knowing that his squadron needed every pilot strapped in and in the furball – but unable to do anything but observe.

The "Golden BB" had gotten him with a swift kick in the ass, followed by a futile struggle with a dying Valkyrie, followed in turn by a _swifter_ kick in the ass to escape- courtesy of his ejection seat.

Now, as the general path of his descent seemed to be carrying him east, away from the target objective given to Mathias's ships for ground attack- and conceivably even east of Santiago Papasquiaro- Delaney had a ample time for thought…

-Having to explain to Cheryl how the thing he swore up and down would _never_ happen had happened, followed by the inevitable fight over his choice of military professions.

.. _Oh no, forget Cheryl's wrath-_. Delaney realized he was going to have to survive _Lyle's_ ire before she ever got a chance to abuse the scraps left over…

Piglet would be amused though.

Delaney had taken his equal share, maybe _a tad more_ , in enjoying Vought's misfortune at getting a free parachute ride into The Sea of Cortez the day before – and perhaps this was karma claiming its dues.

At any rate, Piglet deserved the laugh-.

Point Lieutenant Moyrt choked for air as the enormous, invisible force of the blow dealt to his Nacht-Rau suit traveled through him, carrying the air from his lungs as it went. The world had been set into a violent, ceaseless roll about him before he had completely expelled his breath- but training and the instinct imbedded into him allowed his body to relax enough for the combat suit to right itself in flight.

The spry and fragile micronian fighter that he had latched onto in pursuit was gone now- or perhaps nearby-. It was impossible to be certain because when he and half of his platoon had obeyed Action Commander Kevtok's order to pursue four of that type that had been probing the staging area in the foothills of the mountains- there had been _only four_ .

Four had been reduced to three- though its pilot had slipped one of Moyrt's Serhot Ran's best efforts by jettisoning himself as his machine disintegrated around him in spectacular fashion.

-And then _they_ \- others of the same kind as the first four- had some in like streaks of lightning and were now _everywhere_.

It was now a blood frenzy on both sides, every bit as savage and relentless as any Invid attack that Moyrt had seen- but with a sense of vendetta that only came with conscious intellect, pride, and malicious will. –In seconds the fight had become something _personal._

In an instant, also like Moyrt's experience in battling Invid, he had found himself enveloped and searching for the quickest route to the fight's exterior where he could regain tactical control. It was also in that instant when the avenue of egress had become clear that Moyrt had spotted a sole micronian fighter on the same course and in almost a perfect position of vulnerability.

The micronian pilot had either seen or sensed Moyrt moving into attack position because his posture and maneuver changed as though with a flip of a switch from _escape_ to _evade._ –And to Moyrt's reluctant admission, the micronian's skill in maneuver to evade was impressive. Snap-rolls and sharp, reversing turns, steep dives that reversed into aggressive climbs- all flawlessly executed in a way that would have thrown off a lesser Warrior.

-But the micronian's misfortune was that Moyrt was _not_ a lesser Warrior.

The Point Lieutenant knew his combat suit as well as the micronian knew his fighter, and knew the counter-maneuver to each of the micronian's tricks. –And far more importantly, Moyrt sensed that he had the edge of experience that told him to master the contest of flight skill first- the opportunity of the kill shot would follow.

-And then whatever they had been- missiles probably- had landed a double blow with bone-rattling brutality to his chest.

Stunned momentarily, Moyrt's mind was still clear enough to suspect his quarry's companion that he had presumed to be lost or hopelessly separated to be responsible for the attack. The attacker's identity was of little importance.

A flash of shame reset Moyrt's mind- flushing out the pain and re-establishing the proper discipline of a Serhot Ran Warrior that he had abandoned in impulsively pursuing the lone micronian. The fact of another micronian being able to mount an attack upon him- the blow to his pride- was what Moyrt accepted as just punishment.

His Nacht-Rau combat suit he found had lost function of the chest-mounted missile launchers- a practical manifestation of Moyrt's punishment. The suit was still combat capable though, proof that a Nacht-Rau could take a hit and keep fighting.

Moyrt had focus again and was determined to show Serhot Ran could as well…

Actually, he was determine to show that a Serhot Ran Warrior hit could continue fighting, and would fight _harder…_

"Moyrt- Hyra's unit is on ascent to reinforce you!", Action Commander Kevtok announced bluntly, followed by the clear mandate, "Move that fight east- over the micronian position and drive their rotor hovercraft from the battlespace! Air support is inbound, but we haven't the time to let them sweep the sky for us. I need our mecha moving _now!_ "

A quick glance a short distance west spoke to Kevtok's urgency.

While he and his unit had been in concealment on the ground, Moyrt had been aware of the micronian blocking efforts immediately around him. From an airborne stance and elevated position, he had now a broader perspective.

The eastern face of the ridge over which norghil were steadily flowing was strewn to the point of being virtually impassible along some avenues of descent with destroyed and burning Regults. As other combat pods negotiated the extreme downward slope and accumulated wreckage of slain comrades they showed themselves becoming inadvertently trapped in lethal clustering.

The micronians, privileged to the same removed view of the norghil movement over the ridgeline were as quick to act on tactical errors as Moyrt was to spot them.

Sleek, angular fighters ran circuits as small elements from points south, following the contours of the plunging eastern slopes at high speed. Missile, rocket, and cannon fire reached out as the pilots cleared paths before themselves through Regult units that found themselves under intense attack before they had become aware of a threat.

Where concentrations of combat pods were the thickest, the passage of these insidious micronian fighters was invariably followed by the burst of plasma napalm canisters in their wake. The unmistakable green flash of exploding bomblets would draw a dotted line across the slanted landscape and through a thick of Regults to be followed instantaneously by a rising sheet of star-hot flame connecting the points.

Entire Regult units in the squad to platoon size range could be seen to melt like frost under hot breath, or vanish altogether- sublimated by direct exposure to the intense heat.

The hillside itself was marred with great swaths of blackened glass, fused from rock and soil and speaking to how many strikes of this kind had been performed on this relatively small parcel of battlefield already and with an untold cost in norghil lives.

In the intervals between passes of the sleek, fast-moving fighters whose attacks were more knife-like in their relative precision, the storms of long-range, indirect projectile fire would come in a bludgeoning assault that would sweep entire portions of the mountain's eastern slope clean of Regults. As the earth and rock displaced in mini-geysers from the exploding bomblets of incoming shells settled, the ground was reset for the next cycle of massacre.

Moyrt, in witnessing only moments of an action that had been ongoing for some hours was inclined to denigrate the micronian efforts as unwillingness to join a fight on honorable terms- a collective lack of spine. –But hints at individual bravery were evident in the enemy's warriors as well.

Ground attack aircraft, a kind that Moyrt had seen once and engaged days before on the continent further south were here now too. He had seen them before in their mecha configuration, but their odd, rounded bodies marked them unmistakably as the same war machines.

No less agile or swift than their more angular counterparts who maintained dominance over the eastern slopes of the mountain ridge, the pilots of these odd-looking fighters demonstrated a greater, bordering on ill-advised level of aggression.

Running the same directional circuit, south to north, as their counterparts- these fighters showed great audacity as they plunged in two-ship elements into the valleys west of the ridgeline on which norghil units were being decimated. While the mountain precluded direct observation of each pair's run, their progression on the attack run could easily be followed by the storm of particle beam fire erupting skyward from unseen Combat Pods below. The fact that the fusillade of energy bolts would often follow the element of ugly, little craft long after they had climbed free of the valley in an aggressive angle of egress spoke by inference to the damage that they had done.

-And the cycle would then begin again…

Moyrt felt a rage, nauseating in its intensity, swell within him.

Norghil as the units were on the eastern slope, the ridgeline, and within the valley beyond, the micronians were committing an unforgivable offense in Moyrt's eyes as they slew with near impunity.

Zentraedi blood, even _norghil_ blood, was _still_ Zentraedi blood and as such warranted a greater measure of micronian blood in return.

In that infuriating moment though, there was an opening- a pause in the rage that showed Moyrt the seductive opportunity to dampen the fire the enemy had lit within him, while complying with Kevtok's orders in the same vengeful stroke.

He scanned the skies, looking for the micronian _participant_ who would enable his developing plan-.

A pulse stream of rapidly fired ion bolts streaked out ahead of Mathias's Logan Veritech, jabbing its death-touch finger into Zentraedi mecha that could not help but bunch up for their numbers along the narrow valley floor. _Aiming_ was not required, Mathias had quickly discovered – it was only necessary to let the steam of energy bolts follow where his gaze and the integrated targeting system of his helmet pointed to strike Battle Pods with nearly every blast.

The act of slaughter was not even challenging.

The _challenge_ came in the maintaining of nerve and avoidance of target fixation-.

A sharp turn northeast charged on at Mathias directly ahead – a turn he had gotten the feel for over the course of six passes through this particular chasm that was showing to be the enemy's chosen "main avenue" of transit through this last portion of mountainous terrain.

What Mathias had grown no comfort for was the abrupt turn west that followed just over eight hundred meters beyond. At the high speed that the Logan pilots of The Crimson Cavaliers had found that they had to maintain on their passes through the winding network of canyons to prevent the enemy from throwing anything but panic fire up in their faces, they had to begin their sharp, banking turn left almost instantly following the first turn northeast. A hesitation or miscalculation in the turn meant sharing the misfortune of Norman and Beauchamp whose Logans had scarcely seen two dozen combat sorties, but now burned as a single, indistinguishable field of debris scattered over the same westwardly curving mountain slope.

It may have been target fixation on Norman and Beauchamp's parts- the loss of situational awareness in the primary task of _flying the airplane_ to the focus on killing the enemy that allowed the terrain to sneak up on them. Equally possible, a change in variables in navigating the valley may have been in play- an unexpected gust of wind, or slightly higher groundspeed may have invalidated the determination of a turning point established on previous runs. –Or, it may have been enemy fire, or simply a mistake that made at four hundred knots and at under a hundred meters of altitude was just fatal.

It would likely never be known for sure, nor was it particularly important save the cautionary tale that the loss told: _don't screw up_.

Speed and low-level approach on targets was what was required to give the Logans an edge on the attack. A degree of luck as well as mastery of the aircraft was what was required to walk away from the engagement.

This was what made war hell, Mathias suspected- but it was the deal they had signed on for- Norman and Beauchamp included.

Mathias walked his stream of ion cannon fire through a cluster of Regults that just randomly caught his eye by the bobbing of their rounded and particle beam cannon-topped bodies. Designed to defeat significantly heavier armor, the ion bolts passed easily through the frontal plating of the three leading targets that were least obstructed in their aspect to the ASC-AF pilot.

Showers of sparks leaping off the forward bodies of Regults around penetration points nearly eclipsed the explosive sparking aft, evidence of the Logan's main energy cannon's power as the ion bolts passed _through_ and _exited_ the targets.

"Turn on zero-five-zero ahead-.", Mathias warned his wingman who in addition to having his element lead ahead and partially obscuring his view of the upcoming terrain was also similarly occupied in strafing all he could in his path.

Mathias juggled simultaneously the weighty mental tasks of preventing his Logan from becoming a particularly expensive plough, monitoring and assessing for this run the validity of the turn waypoint ahead that he had established on a previous pass, and engaging the enemy.

Panic fire directed hastily at him and his wingman from Battle Pods in the instant before they were cut down was sphincter-clenching, but manageable in its expectation.

It was striking of a "sweet spot" by ion bolts passing through the center target of a three-Pod cluster causing its fiery, dramatic explosion that Mathias had not anticipated and which gave fear sharper teeth and a stronger bite.

There was nothing to do at this range and closure rate however but brace-.

As flame washed over the Logan's port side, Mathias was treated to a poor mimicry of steel drums as fragments beat his airframe and from the corner of his eye he was certain he caught a glimpse of a giant corpse's semi-intact head and shoulders riding the pressure of the explosion skyward.

The competing mental processes Mathias had been laboring under had not faltered though- and judgment on the navigation of the valley persevered.

" _Turn!"_

Mathias threw the stick hard right, not sure whether the vocalized imperative was more for his wingman or himself.

As the Logan banked obediently, he pulled the nose through the turn feeling the crush of G-forces as the world rolled starboard and pitched before him. His outpouring of fire did not diminish, but his dedication to accuracy waned slightly with his concentration on the _next_ turn.

The westward bend, carpeted with Norman and Beauchamp's wreckage leapt instantaneously up at the pilot as if some sadistic, divine force had removed two hundred meters from the run of the valley floor.

Mathias reversed the maneuver that had put him into the northeast turn through the valley, pulling harder into it to match the severity of the course change required. Individual rock outcroppings and the leaves of plants and trees anchored to them became distinguishable in the nanosecond before they rushed by the Logan's bubble canopy in a blur of earth tones and green. So immediate had been the turn that Matias did not consciously register the wreckage of his two pilots' Logans as he passed over.

In some ways, it was fortunate that the human mind could only take in so much so fast.

The length of canyon that opened before Mathias from tree and _Regult-top_ level had a greater, straighter run to it. His first passes had shown this to be the ideal zone for racking up kills- a veritable _slaughter alley_ terminating in a relatively small gathering of dwellings known as Garame de Arriba-.

With the broadening and opening of the valley, so had it followed like some martial approximation of Boyle's Law that the enemy in their press forward had glutted densely the available space.

Repeated runs by Mathias's Logans and Spectors had inflicted great loss in the town's packed conditions by use of cannon, rocket, and most economically- plasma napalm. But whereas in the valleys and narrow passes the attrition of Zentraedi Warriors meant that lessons in defense were lost in the turnover of fresh units pressing forward, there were ample survivors of each attack on Garame de Arriba to plan for the next and adjust in its wake.

By Mathias's third pass on the town, there were strong indications that the Zentraedi were adapting- having established some communication mechanism warning warriors in the town of the approach of ASC-AF aircraft before they were "on target".

By the _sixth_ pass Mathias had made, he had no doubt that every warrior in town was aware of his approach before he made the westward turn onto the long run.

This, his _seventh run_ had Mathias questioning only whether he had actually dedicated any reasonable thought into whether or not he should have been making it.

Radiant streaks of blue passed on all sides as a bobbing carpet of malicious, bi-pedal, grey metal forms sprawled out before Mathias. In their number and density, it was questionable whether there had been any measurable effect resulting from his last six harrowing runs, or those of his augmented squadron as a whole.

Sensing the thick and building sheen of sweat over his face and soaking into the fabric of his flight suit all over his body, Mathias focused on the next few seconds, the task at hand- the sweep of his ion cannon over the enemy and not the fire they were returning.

The deliberate refusal of the danger ended instantly as a pronounce bump and noticeable pull of starboard yaw rode through the Logan's airframe. A damage alert sounded in the cockpit, but Mathias felt nothing in the performance of his aircraft to suggest major damage. Everything was operable and functional.

Sudden puffs of white smoke at ground level at the far end of the town marked with an additional warning siren the launch of multiple missiles, and marked the deal-breaking moment with the pilot.

There was bravery, and then there was _suicide_ – and a very fine line in between.

Having reached the line, Mathias pulled the control stick back, turned his nose skyward, and opened his throttles to the stops allowing Earth to slip rapidly away as his Logan's ECM and a shower of automatically dispensed flares and chaff easily defeated the missile threat that had been thrown up against him.

"- _Abort, abort, abort!-.."_ , the squadron leader called to his wingman, not certain in doing so whether the second ship was actually still with him to hear the order.

" _Shit!_ ", Matias's wingman replied, the strained sound of his voice telling the element lead his second ship was climbing away from danger with him, "-Let's not do that again, alright?.."

There was bravery, and then there was suicide. –And the war promised many more opportunities to walk that fine line.

The landscape of sharp mountain terrain was losing its fine detail as Matias twisted against the weight of G-forces to watch it fall away.

What was still clear was the contrast between naturally occurring forms in their browns and greens and the mass of artificial ones in grey brought by the enemy. As the eastern fringe of this portion of the Sierra Madre fell away and presented an increasingly broad view into its crevices, the flood of alien mecha and warriors pressing through was evident.

Another pass by Logans and Spectors – a _hundred_ more passes - was simply trying to bail out a swollen river with a teacup.

"Oden, Cavalier One- my people are coming up on bingo ordinance and the dittos are getting religion on defense-. Request elevated arty and long range rocket support to saturate the area. –Would appreciate avoiding getting murdered in the first week of this thing-. Over."

"Cavalier One, Oden.", came the reply dry and dispassionate, "Additional support is unavailable at this time. Regroup your ships and concentrate on force reduction and containment at the pass opening southeast your current position. ETA of Fat Boy is thirteen minutes."

"Reduction of their forces or _mine_?..", Mathias grumbled insubordinately as he rolled out of his climb and after checking the skies for visible threats turned southeast to where the ground attack package consisting of the remains of his Logan and Spector squadrons still at work.

"Watch it, Cavalier One-. You're paid to fight the war, not critique it."

Mathias bit his tongue despite great temptation.

The majority of his men were still in the fight and could egress it swiftly to any one of multiple fallback positions if the situation dictated. The growing exchange of energy weapon and missile fire between Santiago Papasquiaro and the foothills east of the spine of mountainous land was a distinct reminder to the pilot that not all shared his squadron's luxury.

The RDF forces dug in within the city and spread out to its north and south as skirmishing elements now seemed a laughable defense against what the Zentraedi had committed to the fight.

..No, not _seemed – was…._

Reinforcing ASC and RDF-Army units rushing west to support with air assault units attached or not, there would be no holding the dittos if they slipped the confines of the mountain passes and got into open country. Even the possibility of _slowing_ the aliens was looking highly improbable.

If the units within Santiago Papasquiaro enjoyed any benefit, it was only that they had not seen what Mathias was seeing. _Blissful ignorance._

-And Winters…

As thoughts of the grinding dance with Death that Mathias had just stepped away from began to diminish, the squadron leader could clearly see how the hornet-swarm melee the Valkyrie squadron leader had provoked was still at a fever pitch.

The ASC-AF squadron leader was far from feeling any love for or forgiveness of his RDF-AF counterpart, but Winters had been good to his word up to this point. Logans and Spectors had been lost in the short battle, but not a one to Zentraedi top-cover.

If Winters could _maintain_ the effort as the Logans and Spectors renewed theirs, Mathias conceded to himself that a touch of gratitude might be in order.

Maybe-.

 _Slash and run-._

It was the tactic that had been drilled into the head of every Valkyrie pilot and firmly anchored since Quadranos and their _Queadlunn-Rau_ power armor had been first encountered during The Robotech War. -And not without justification.

The Valkyrie with a well-trained pilot could outperform anything in the Zentraedi inventory that could take to the air or operate in space with only a very few flight characteristics in exception. It was just one of those misfortunes of war for Valkyrie pilots that most of those exceptions resided in the _Queadlunn-Rau_ power armor.

The first generation of Valkyrie pilots had learned through heavy losses not to tangle, not to grapple with the _Queadlunn-Rau_ suits, but to control the engagement from initiation to break by joining at high speed for intense, but _brief_ contact.

Subtle refinements of the basic principles followed and were passed on by veteran pilots who taught the next generation, who in turn continued to refine the tactics, and so on-.

 _Slash and run_ however was blunted somewhat when the enemy would not let go for the Valkyrie to disengage.

-And _these_ Zentraedi were showing themselves to be quick and apt studies in modifying their own tactics.

Winters felt in his own bones what _Marilyn_ was communicating to him with every creak and groan of her airframe as she fought physics to obey the pilot's commands. Lives were at extreme risk and maneuver pushing the outside of the Valkyrie's performance envelope was needed if Winters and Vincenz were to intercede.

A pair of Green Bandits had exploded out of the center of the furball to the northeast and had tied onto a two-ship element from Kusunoki's Stormy Petrels that had just set up on the melee's exterior to attack the middle.

The Green Bandits had charged the forward hemisphere of the Stormy Petrel element, covering themselves with a volley of short-range missiles that the Valkyries defeated by ECM, but which allowed the _X-Raus_ to transition aft and demonstrate their unnerving ability to swiftly reverse course even at high speeds. In the span of seconds, the Valkyries were defensive and well within the aliens' sphere of tactical dominance.

Focused as the Green Bandits had become on scoring two Valkyrie kills, it was unclear as to whether they had even noticed Winters and Vincenz preparing for another slashing run attack from high and further south. The Knight Hawk Squadron CO and his wingman _had_ seen the Green Bandits though, and their deft reversal of initiative on the Stormy Petrel element and had as quickly changed their plan of attack.

The Green Bandits were rolling and weaving in trail of the two defensively jinking Valkyries and filling the skies about them with the lethal energy bolts from their unique rifles before the Knight Hawks had been able to maneuver into attack position. Bursts from Winters and Vincenz's laser cannons of increasing length had found their mark but had been ineffective in either causing significant damage to the Green Bandits, or clearing them from the tails of the Stormy Petrel element.

Had either of the Knight Hawks had a Basilisk remaining on their weapons stations, an easy missile shot would have been possible- but all of the formidable all-purpose weapons had long since been fired and it would be critical seconds that the Stormy Petrels did not have before Winters and Vincenz were able to engage with Fury dogfighting missiles.

"Petrel Six and Seven, split and climb and we'll clear you!", Winters directed, "Vice, stay with the chap who goes right!.."

The defensive Stormy Petrels pitched up and snap-rolled away from one another, bringing a Green Bandit apiece with them. Their directional change, and the resulting momentary loss of velocity gave Winters the speed advantage needed to close the range. A Fury missile under _Marilyn'_ s port wing tracked the movement of Winters' gaze with its seeker head, allowing it to acquire the Green Bandit as the desired target and with no background threat to the "friendly".

No sooner had the missile growled out its tone of readiness into the pilot's ear than he released it.

The Green Bandit barrel-rolled to port, attempting to evade as its pilot stubbornly refused to let his own prey slip the engagement. A hail of destabilized plasma bolts slammed home along the flank of the defensive Valkyrie's port engine and at points along the dorsal airframe as Winters' Fury found the power armor at its right hip and detonated.

The Valkyrie's engine shattered in a fiery billow of smoke and debris as its entire tail assembly broke away and tumbled out of sight toward Earth below. The Valkyrie's canopy followed, blown clear by explosive bolts, and then a moment later by the ejection seat that carried the pilot clear of his disintegrating ship.

A call to the AWACS, "Mirage", that had assumed tactical C2 over the Valkyries t to notify SAR of a pilot down would have been appropriate- had the Green Bandit not turned in perceivable rage on the attacking squadron leader.

 _Oh shit-._

The internal expletive was still rattling around Winters' skull as the Green Bandit completed a mid-air, half-summersault to charge head-to-head on its attacker.

Had the range between them been greater it might have given the Green Bandit the split-second needed to give Winters a face full of missiles or bring its powerful energy rifle to bear on him. –But fortunately, range and speed only gave both pilots the time to avoid mid-air collision with one another.

Winters lost sight of the Green Bandit in a blur of motion low to port as they whipped by one another faster than the actual fear of collision took to set in.

This Green Bandit had skill- Winters sensed it, and fought pride with the rational argument that surviving the engagement likely meant a _team effort_ involving Vice and Petrel Seven- wherever they might be.

Searching frantically aft, Winters was genuinely surprised to _not_ find the Green Bandit maneuvering into attack position somewhere in his rear hemisphere. Their merge and separation had been close and jarring, but not so unnerving as dissuade an experienced Zentraedi Warrior from the attack. –And Winters was sure in the knot in his gut that this bandit _was experienced-_.

Winters was sure however that the mystery of the missing Green Bandit would not be solved, nor was there any benefit gained by presenting his tail to the region of battlespace that he knew the enemy had to occupy.

A slight application of airbrakes and a grueling Split-S reversed _Marilyn'_ s course giving Winters full "eyes-on" the airspace he'd been fleeing only moments before.

Winters found the Green Bandit easily now, and confirmation that the alien pilot was experienced. The reason he had not been found clinging to Winters tail became immediately evident, and the reason was horrifying-.

Point Lieutenant Moyrt fought through waves of pain, channeling it into aggression.

 _Again_ a micronian had gotten the better of him and in the span of seconds had actually drawn blood.

Unlike the two missiles that had struck his suit's frontal armor minutes before, the latest had exploded at Moyrt's hip where the armor was thinner by necessity. It was a lucky hit scored by the alien, no doubt, but one that had penetrated the Nacht-Rau to wound the pilot inside.

Pain radiating from his hip and upper thigh, and the spreading warmth of spilt blood saturating the lining of his flight suit, Moyrt still maintained clarity of mind. –And in that clarity he remembered his most recent order given to him directly by Action Commander Kevtok to draw the fight toward the micronian stronghold, and of the plan that had come to him for how to do it.

Though not ideal, Moyrt recognized that the engagement just terminated had presented him with the opportunity he had been looking for.

Moyrt had broken from the micronian fighter that had wounded him and quickly found the micronian whose fighter he had destroyed. The alien had escaped immediate death and was in controlled descent to the ground, suspended beneath a primitive canopy of insubstantial fabric.

Snatching the relatively stationary creature from the air even at near supersonic speed was perhaps too simple to be gratifying, as was the minimal resistance of flesh and bone as Moyrt closed the fingers of his Nacht-Rau's left hand into a fist with all the force the suit could exert before discarding the crushed alien's remains.

The act did not satiate Moyrt's desire to lash out for the wounds received this day, but the sudden storm of laser fire that sliced the air at all points around him in response showed that he now had his enemy's undivided attention. Executing Kevtok's orders and achieving a measure of self-gratification were now both within Moyrt's reach-.

Winters rolled and wove in trail of the Green Bandit fighting to minimize the deflection of his track as he struggled with surprising difficulty to keep the aiming reticule projected within his helmet visor on the target. The power armor was all over the sky, maneuvering with a lightness of agility that strained belief.

The alien was _good_ \- there was no question- and good made it dangerous, but now there was now a blood debt to be settled.

Winters had had eyes on the bandit at the moment when the alien had gone from _combatant_ to _murderer_ in the pilot's judgment.

The impact alone had to have killed Petrel Six instantly Winters kept reminding himself in the very small and deeply seated region of his brain not fully engaged in gaining position on and killing the Green Bandit. –But that was not the point. An unspoken rule had been broken and its breach was capital offense.

The knife continued to turn around the knot in Winters' gut as one in ten laser bolts pumped out by his cannons struck the bandit's seemingly impenetrable hide and did little but mar the brutish aesthetics of the machine.

This was fine as far as Winters was concerned- this was only _starters_ for what he intended. Each roll and turn of the Valkyrie lessened the angle of deflection bringing the "kill shot" moments closer- and for that shot Winters had in mind something with a heavier _punch_ than lasers.

As _Marilyn_ came out of a tight, left barrel-roll setting the Green Bandit out in front of Winters at a minimal angle, the pilot flipped the weapon selector to engage the centerline-fixed GU-11 gun pod mounted to the fighter's belly. The 21st Century dropped instantly away and the methods of dogfighting common in 1916 re-asserted themselves.

" _-Jack, I lost you! -Where the hell are you?!..._ "

Winters registered the call from Vice, though how many times his wingman had already called out to him was beyond his guessing- he was focused on steadying PIPper that roamed through his field of view with the path the gun pod's shells would fly relative to the motion of the Valkyrie. Connecting the PIPper with the Green Bandit as he dove below four thousand meters was proving more difficult than Winters had anticipated despite the lower angle of deflection.

 _All the better._

-The alien was not surrendering his life easily, but if he could merge target and PIPer- Winters had seen what the 55mm shells could do to a Green Bandit from this orientation….

" _Low and west!_ ", Winters called to Vincenz in reply, truly having no other useful reference to provide.

The wingman's call slapped the squadron leader mentally into realizing that since he had tied on to the Green Bandit, he'd checked his own tail perhaps once and not thoroughly at that. Target fixation had killed many a pilot in the history of dogfighting, and though it was agony to take his eyes off the bandit before him to sweep the skies aft, Winters was more determined to not be added to that distinguished list.

 _Clear._

" _Forget me, Vice- cover anyone riding nylon!"_ , Winters ordered finding that in the moment or two his eyes had been off the Green Bandit, his adversary had thrown off Winters's track.

" _What?!_ ", Vice replied, clearly not understanding.

" _PARACHUTES- cover anyone who's bailed out!_ "

Winters forced _Marilyn'_ s nose well below the horizon to attempt the impossible and match the far heavier Green Bandit in a dive even as the deck below began to take on features of terrain and vegetation.

Had the bandit run out of tricks and resorted to a battle of nerve with a low-altitude engagement?

No.

As the Green Bandit jinked about, Winters was allowed glimpses of the nearing landscape ahead and by chance saw _beyond_ the Green Bandit and gained understanding of the alien's dive to the deck.

A pilot was seconds away from reaching ground, and the Green Bandit was headed straight for him- its intent unmistakable to Winters.

The horror of Petrel Six's fate being repeated shrank in comparison to Winters realization of exactly _who_ the Green Bandit's target was. Only a few Valkyrie pilots had been forced to eject of the course of the short but ferocious fight, and of these only one could be expected to be this close to ground and this far from where the battle had migrated.

 _Skinny._

A gun shot from his GU-11 was still seconds from being worthy of attempting, and lasers were an annoyance at most to the power armor. Winters selected his last two Furies and awaited the growl of target acquisition.

The Furies flew true and steady, closing the distance to target quickly as the altitude of the chase dropped below 300 meters with the Green Bandit jinking as wildly as proximity to the deck would allow, and the Valkyrie counter-maneuvering for a clean gun shot.

Winters clamped down on the firing safety and trigger on the control stick as the PIPper traversed the target well low of the center mass and _Marilyn_ shuddered with the natural deceleration caused as the gun pod released a measured burst of twenty-five 55mm cannon shells.

The strike of three or four cannon shells coincided with the detonation of both of Winters' Fury missiles, and caused a scatter of debris from the wounded Green Bandit that began to bleed off grey smoke immediately. But there was no concealing or mistaking the detonation of a heavy destabilized plasma round at deck-level far ahead of the bandit.

The Green Bandit rocketed skyward and retreated hastily northeast-.

As though intended as a torment, the alien opened a broad and clear view of the fuming, fused-glass hole gouged out of the earth and tattered and burning scraps of a parachute that the wind was just now carrying to ground.

Cold revulsion surged through Winters, voiding all else.

Slamming the throttles of the Valkyrie to the stops and hauling the stick back and right, it was not difficult to find the path by which the Green Bandit had escaped, corkscrewing through the sky in a thinning trail of charcoal grey. Fire was quickly replacing the cold sickness that had washed through Winters' veins as he again took up pursuit.

Possibly incapable of rejoining its own kind at mid-altitude, or simply preferring to continue the match at a low level, the course of the Green Bandit showed it going directly for Santiago Papasquiaro.

Winters was indifferent. –He would happily oblige the alien and finish the fight wherever his enemy chose to die….

The blood debt for Petrel Six had now become a matter of vengeance.

As Winters steadied _Marilyn_ in trail of the Green Bandit and began a slow gain on it, he saw beyond to what the ground battle was becoming and considered that it might not be a lone charge that the Zentraedi was making in some fatalistic last bid for immortal glory in the lore of comrades who might survive this day-. At ground level, the exchange of energy weapons fire had intensified to an unwavering storm between the defenders of Santiago Papasquiaro and the Zentraedi attackers.

Regults now poured from the concealed positions they had been covering within in the low foothills west while the ridgelines and eastern slopes beyond were awash with an increasing cascade of grey as the Zentraedi swelled over the natural boundaries that had contained them.

Artillery and rocket fire was no longer pulverizing a mountainside, but rather the less defined expanse of open ground that joined the foothills to the town to their east. Shells and rockets burst scattering bomblets in the paths of swiftly advancing Regults or in their midst causing the building clouds of dust and smoke to flash with the irregular strobe flash of detonations.

Plasma-napalm missiles reached the densest clusters of attacking mecha across the breadth of the line of advance, pulsing green for an instant before raising columns of sooty orange over melting war machines. The RDF-Army Destroids that had fired the weapons and that held the front lines of the position's defense continued to sweep the field with energy weapons and gun pods, cutting down Regults that survived the artillery fire and plasma-napalm.

The Zentraedi were showing themselves to be no less determined in their response to the withering fire slicing through their units.

Artillery Regults, their sensors blunted by imbedded RDF-Army EW units aimed and fired their weapons line-of-sight, or in saturating volleys to compensate for inaccuracy. Particle beam fire raked all that Regult pilots could see, bringing civilian structures down to their foundations as steel, wood, block, brick and mortar crumbled with the ease of flattening a house of cards.

RDF-Army Destroids and conventional fighting vehicles quickly found themselves in the open and subject to concentrated fire from multiple points as the weight of the Zentraedi force continued to build into a steady roll forward. Units collapsed to "fallback positions" to maintain some semblance of defilade while persisting in stubborn defense- but whatever the term hung on each displacement and relocation, it was still the ceding of ground.

Winters could see also that Mathias's Logans and Spectors had not recused themselves from the fight either. The ordinance that had run the ASC-AF ships right up to their maximum take-off weight had long since been expended, leaving only energy and cannon armaments to fight with.

Bravely- _foolish brave_ perhaps, the ASC pilots brought their ships down dangerously low and fast over the thickest concentrations of moving Zentraedi units, laying out streams of fire before them.

As Regults of all types were cut down and trampled under by the steady advance of their own, ground fire was returned on the attacking ASC-AF elements from all directions and angles making it appear as though the Zentraedi had elected to engage the sky itself.

-How anything larger than a sparrow was able to cross the enemy's line of advance and emerge intact was beyond Winters' comprehension- as was the nerve required by the ASC pilots to repeatedly expose themselves to that danger. Even the worst dogfight was one thing, but this was another altogether.

Bravery not being armor plating, it was jarring but not shocking to see the third ship of a Spector four-ship element that was just beginning its run well northwest of the Santiago Papasquiaro's limits take a pulsating, dual stream of Regult particle beam bolts through its center mass from somewhere far starboard. The Spector, rugged as it was, not so robust as to be able to survive the rupture of one of its fusion engines' critical parts. The craft was a tumbling fireball before the pilot had the chance to think of ejecting.

The flaming wreckage went to ground and rolled like a flaming bowling ball through Regults acting as its pins before all were lost to sight under the surging tide of battleship grey mecha.

The outer fringes of Santiago Papasquiaro did not even resemble the outskirts of a town anymore as Winters observed the firs Zentraedi units begin to enter.

It was certain now that the Green Bandit that the squadron leader was trailing was wise in his choice of the ground on which he would make his stand- the city would be occupied in a quarter of an hour with the complementary actions of the RDF-Army withdrawal and the Zentraedi advance. –He was wise to seek the company of friends.

The alien was wiser than Winters, the pilot admitted to himself, as the thought of breaking the engagement had not even crossed his mind. Not until Skinny had been answered for.

" _Bring the fight to ground!..."_ , Action Commander Kevtok ordered as the burning wreck of a micronian fighter tumbled into a spiraling dive whose progression the officer followed only momentarily.

The transformable aircraft and its wingman had come across Kevtok in the thick of his pursuit of another of their kind and had elected to engage. Kevtok's first warning of this was his suit's threat warning alarms followed by a dual-blow from missiles insufficient to penetrate the armor of his Nacht-Rau where they had struck center-mass.

The pair in pursuit could not have known the gravity of their mistake before making it, but as they had found him, Kevtok was all but impervious to the shocks and traumas of combat.

In a state that he had recognized in few other Warriors, but that was as much a part of him as any of his limbs, Kevtok was _charged_ by battle. It flowed through him like electrical current, purifying him of all other things than combat- and where the chaos of the fight distracted others, it brought Kevtok a singular clarity of thought and purity of action.

His life was not one that would yield to a mere micronian.

-But the pair of micronian fighters had had no way of knowing this.

Kevtok had rolled headlong into the dual-blast, reversing himself in flight before he had been certain of whether his Nacht-Rau could _maintain_ flight and had fired his Nador rifle by instinct.

Luck, skill, Fate's intervention, or a combination of all three, it did not matter- as the end result was the same. The lead of the pair of micronian fighters took almost the entire volley of destabilized plasma bolts and had disintegrated in white-hot flame

The second of the pair survived the first only by a matter of seconds- the time it took for the fighter to pass Kevtok mid-air and for the action commander to draw down on it with the left forearm mounted plasma cannon that had been charged but yet to be fired this day.

Kevtok took this as the opportunity.

The immediate threat to self gone, Kevtok's mind broadened to the larger struggle around him in which not all of his Serhot Ran were doing as well as him. Fragile as they were, the micronians in their fighters had spilled a significant amount of Te'Dak Tohl blood in this skirmish alone.

Warriors died, but _Kevtok's Warriors_ had better things to die for than ownership of open air.

-Not when the critical substance of the fight was below.

Explosions of every size and magnitude common to mecha-on-mecha combat showed from high above the population center the middle ground between the micronians on retreat and improved norghil units in their pursuit.

This was where Kevtok's Warriors were most needed and where the micronians were trying to keep them from intervening.

" _Bring the fight to ground!..."_ , Kevtok ordered again, the first only having been moments before and having been far too little time for his warriors to have complied.

Kevtok could feel the grip of the micronian fighters holding him from the fight of importance slipping, and he knew he would be into it soon.

 **AWACS-EC-33 "Mirage"**

"Spike three.", Senior Tactical Intercept Controller Cho called out as his monitor showed a third and fourth Basilisk fired from a SAM battery over 120Km away connecting with a Green Bandit and sending it in a rapid plunge earthward.

Four SAM batteries, almost all equal distance from the battle that Mirage was providing C2 for and monitoring most intently, had salvo-fired their weapons at the AWACS's command with only general destination coordinates provided to their guidance systems. Their seeker heads had slept for most of the quick flight to the target area at over three times the speed of sound, and had not been roused until the last possible moment.

InfoLink had provided particular weapons with the specific frequency of radar energy whose reflections the weapons were to seek out and destroy. Simultaneously, and intentionally so to preserve the surprise of the attack until the last possible moment- the AWACS began to bathe the Green Bandits engaged with the outnumbered Valkyries over Santiago Papasquiaro with the beams of coded energy that the weapons were now actively seeking.

Upon acquisition of the desired target, each Basilisk reported its ability to pursue to terminal contact autonomously, and the AWACS was relieved of its tracking obligations.

As the first wave of Basilisks raked the air, striking many Green Bandits but scoring kill probability on only three, the other missiles of their kind from the same volley were egressing the battlespace and decelerating for the broad, looping turn to re-approach the battlespace from the same, initial direction of approach.

Fuel consumption would make this second run the last for this volley of Basilisks and if they had felt pressure the way that fighter pilots did, there might have been the additional spur to perform given the approach of missile volleys from the other OA SAM batteries.

"Second salvo, initial intercepts in eight seconds-." , Cho announced calmly as the AWACS's radar confirmed good lock and tracking on nearly all of the Green Bandits that were still airborne but were rapidly descending.

"-They're going to the deck for cover."

Colonel Moore, the AWACS commander, was modestly disappointed at Cho's report that the Green Bandits had been driven from the sky before the following waves of Basilisks could slice into them. The Valkyrie squadrons providing top cover for operations around the Santiago Papasquiaro area were spent and ready to let SAMs carry the burden of keeping the skies clear.

Oddly, despite heavier losses than their RDF counterparts, the ASC-AF Logans and Spectors were not showing themselves to be in any great rush to leave the fight. Despite the fact that their attacks had been reduced to strafing runs using their laser and ion cannon armaments alone, they were showing no less appetite for wanton destruction of the enemy.

Whatever their reason for wanting to continue, the ASC-AF units were still subject to Oden's tactical command, so by extension it seemed that it was General Renkin was the one who was not ready for them to quit just yet. This kept Morales's Valkyries on the hook also until they could be relieved.

Colonel Moore had already requested multiple times additional squadrons to support the OA and had been denied with the exception of support for withdrawal to and beyond initial fallback positions. There was nothing more he could do for Oden or the RDF-Army forces on the ground, with two exceptions.

"Transition hand-off target identification and designation to Oden for all remaining inbound Basilisks.", Moore ordered, "- _And what the hell is the ETA on Fat Boy?!_.."

"Two minutes, twenty seconds to release point, sir."

"Transfer final drop authority to Oden as well.", Moore ordered, "General Renkin will know best where she wants that package delivered. We're moving to Fallback Position Alpha-."

" _Bandits, Bandits, Bandits!_ ", was called out by the senior tracker seated only a station aft of where Col Moore's command console was located, the sound of the officer's tone was unnerving to all in its extreme urgency.

"Where and how many?", Moore replied with questions on details that should have been part of the tracker's initial report.

"All points from zero-two-zero through two-six-zero true-. They're coming down from low orbit- _too many_ to isolate ant track individually, sir-."

Moore zoomed out the three-dimensional projected image of the main tactical display, shrinking Mirage's OA to only a portion of the display and continued until a crescent of irregular, pulsating blobs of light appeared moving toward a common center that was the region of ASC Durango Base.

Zooming out further, similar amorphous radar returns where the individual craft were too numerous to be distinguished and accurately represented were being tracked moving from north and northeast toward the same common destination by other AWACS and relayed by InfoLink. Moore was reminded by the double-sided pincer movement of something he had read of the Zulu warriors by chance and how the martial tribe would create advancing "buffalo horns" that spread over a span of many miles. As the center advanced, the horns would close in on the middle until all in its path became encircled without avenue of escape.

A simple and ancient tactic was being played out over a span of thousands of kilometers now and with the added offensive edge of numbers that the Zulu would have envied and technologies that they could not have imagined.

"- _Oh my God_ ….", Moore heard pass from his own lips.

He felt no shame at the utterance, as he was certain it was the thought in every mind around him- whatever their choice of deity.

 **RDF-AF JSTARS Aircraft, "Oden"**

"Issue the order to retreat immediately-.", General Renkin said with a calm that was disquieting to her own ears, "-While we still have units to withdraw, I want a rapid collapse to rally at initial fallback positions east of Santiago Papasquiaro with the approaching reinforcements that I want reconfiguring in order of battle to mount a _fighting retreat._ There's no holding the dittos now, but we can make them pay for every step forward they take-."

"Yes, ma'am."

"-And Mirage's Basilisks-. I want the missiles tasked to ground targets crossing into Santiago Papasquiaro. I want the enemy's grip loosened enough for our rear guards to withdraw."

"Yes, ma'am."

Renkin feeling the sweat building beneath her skin but her pores too taut with the stress of the moment to allow a drop to escape looked to her RDF-AF liaison, Major Goshin, and said with firm certainty, "We're going to need to bloody their noses if there's any chance of maintaining cohesion in this retreat. Fat Boy will begin their run in about seventy seconds, so you have that long to change the target area from within the mountain passes to _here-_."

Goshin followed Renkin's forefinger as she penetrated the hologram image of the tactical display to plant the digit squarely between the foothills east of the ridgeline and the western boundaries of Santiago Papasquiaro.

"Ma'am-.", Goshin warned with some hesitance, "That moves the kill zone well into the town. –Are our rear guard units going to be able to clear it?"

"My call, Major…", Goshin said, remaining decisive in direction and tone, "The whole damn town will be a kill zone in thirty minutes regardless. Carry out my order."

"Yes, ma'am.", Goshin complied, leaving the immediate company of the general to carry out her mandate.

Action General 1st Grade Hesthira watched from within the cockpit of his Glaug as two ridgelines to the east his 9th Mechanized Corps continued to roll over the last major rise between themselves and the enemy, while other elements followed the natural path and contours of the terrain like a flood into the same flatlands beyond.

Micronian efforts to contain Hesthira's corps and the attached units of improved norghil had been weak at best- inflicting moderate casualties to those unfortunate norghil whom Fate had placed randomly into the units that the action general had selected to spearhead the land movement and to spring any micronian resistance that was lying in wait.

Untested by real combat up to this moment as all had occupied stasis tubes only two seasons before, and only hardened as much as the most rigorous training that could be applied by the Te'Dak Tohl could provide without being wantonly malicious- the norghil had still shown great resolve in pressing their attack through extreme peril. -And at a cost of just over 30% of their numbers, the norghil had won the privilege to lead the sweep of the micronians from their ill-advised position within the population center.

Hesthira was content to allow the norghil units to clear the path well out into open country, though his senior subordinates were beginning to increasingly request movement into direct action. The commander would continue to keep his Te'Dak Tohl to the rear so long as the norghil could effectively grind the enemy down before them though.

They would fix upon this honor, oblivious that their greatest service was the preservation of the 9th Mechanized Corps for the real work when Hesthira's orders had him engaging the micronians' flank as Bren slammed headlong into them from the north.

"Naku", Hesthira said to his executive officer whose Glaug also stood nearby, "-No micronian is to be left living, no mecha, vehicle, or piece of equipment to be left functioning in our path. See that these instructions are understood."

"Treat them as though they are Invid-. Yes Lord, this is understood-.", Naku replied, Hesthira's standing general order for all under his command having been drilled into the being of every Warrior, even norghil, with as much emphasis as any unit tactic or maneuver.

"No, not like Invid.", Hesthira replied, "Invid deserve no respect. –Respect these micronians to understand that any left living in our wake will reconstitute. If they are allowed to do that, they will act with the single purpose of revenge. With that motivation, and even a fraction of the bravery and skill that these micronians have shown today- even a small number could be disproportionately dangerous. Respect them, and destroy them to the last."

"As you order, Lord", Naku complied, "Nothing will be left living in our wake-."

 **RDF-AF C-17, "Fat Boy"**

Major Denise Appleton's view of the world from 12,000 meters was a majestic one with the arching canopy of dark blue visible through the top of the windscreen fading into a robin's egg blue that met and changed to a desert landscape tan at the curve of the Earth below- but there was no illusion on the aircraft commander's part or amongst her crew which had the addition of one now that what was taking place far below was anything but horrific.

This understood, the order Appleton had just received was all that more unnerving.

"Oden, Fat Boy-.", Appleton replied to a JSTARS with the luxury of being removed nearly sixty kilometers from the battlespace, "Please confirm target area re-designation."

Appleton's co-pilot, already wide eyes made so by the order just received nearly had them bulge from his head as the voice of Oden changed in the JSTARS' reply, "Fat Boy, Oden _Actual_. Your orders are correct and confirmed. Re-designate target coordinates and deploy your weapon. Oden out."

The channel closed out and with the ears of the OA commander no longer listening, the co-pilot spoke freely.

"Are they crazy? We're not dropping a firecracker here…."

Appleton shook her head, "They know-. It must be that bad. Navs, give me a new optimal deployment heading."

Because of the minute change in target area coordinates and the guided flight capabilities of the weapon, the navigator's calculations were quick.

"Assume heading one-nine-one, maintain flight level."

"Coming left to one-nine-one.", Appleton said, turning the control wheel of the cargo aircraft slightly left, "WSO, re-designate target coordinates and resume your weapon deployment checklist-. Forty-five seconds out."

Uncommon to a cargo aircraft with the exception of when the airframe was configured and tasked to deliver the ordinance load that only it could carry, the Weapons System Officer and the modular gear components specifically required for the payload were squeezed in to the already cramped space of the cockpit beside the flight engineer.

"Weapon is acknowledging new target coordinates.", the WSO reported, "Resuming checklist. Cargo bay pressure equalization?"

"Pressure equalized.", confirmed the flight engineer.

"Weapon's internal power, primary and secondary is showing green. _–Check_. Guidance system input selection is set to INS- primary and secondary and is synced. _–Check_. Master fuze set for thirty second delay- on. _–Check_. Barometric and time delay fuzes, primary and secondary, set for air burst at five hundred meters. _–Check_. Master safety- on. Major, the weapon is ready for the deployment run."

"Thank you, WSO-.", Appleton said, "Fifteen seconds out. Harry, lower the cargo ramp and arm the payload extraction system."

"Door opening, PES enabled."

"Roger that.", Appleton acknowledged, "Ten seconds out. WSO, enable your weapon for release on my hack."

"Weapon master safety is off. Weapon is ready for deployment, Major."

"Then, in _five, four, three, two, one-. Deploy!_ "

Aft of the cockpit and several meters below, the C-17's load master and assistant load master stood at the forward end of the cargo bay looking down the 10m length of its sole contents.

Unremarkable for anything but its sheer size, the GBU-45-A Massive Air Ordinance Burst, "MOAB", more commonly referred to as the _Mother of All Bombs_ rested in the cradles of the four sleds supporting its daunting 8,400Kg weight. The sleds themselves were locked into tracks atop the payload extraction system, which held the weapon secure along the centerline of the C-17, one of only a few aircraft capable of carrying it.

Well clear of the MOAB and beyond the inevitable suction caused by the airflow around the open rear cargo door, the loadmasters were privileged to the conversations above in the cockpit and aware of the deployment order before the PES hurled the sleds and the MOAB upon it aft and out into the thin air, tail-first.

Drag from the sudden air flow along the length of the weapon caught the GBU-45-A's tail fins that had been collapsed forward during loading and transit, and pulled them into locked flight configuration where they immediately caused the weapon to nose-down and then began to guide it football-like spiral toward an exact position in the sky above the battlefield below.

Computers aboard the MOAB conferred and concurred on the flight track to target and the time to detonation – a mere 45 seconds away.

 **Santiago Papasquiaro**

 _Cowards_.

This was Action Commander Kevtok's thought in the last moments of flight before his Nacht-Rau combat suit caught a defending Raidar-X that had been hurling rapid-fire laser bolts at his approaching Serhot Ran with a flying drop-kick, sending it tumbling and skidding on its back through two civilian structures that collapsed before it and into a third that similarly crumbled.

Incapable of righting itself from the prone position without assistance, it had not come to a complete rest when a single round from Kevtok's heavy destabilized plasma cannon struck it center mass, obliterating the Destroid's body utterly and killing the pilot inside instantly.

Kevtok's dismissal of his enemy was less so for the micronian warrior whom he had just ended- that one at least had made an effort at resistance. Others, deeper within the population center had been seen by the Serhot Ran officer fleeing as quickly as the legs of their crude mecha and the wheels and tracks of their obsolete vehicles could carry them.

Kevtok had seen in his time marooned on this world micronians far less well-equipped put up more spirited a fight. These aliens were capable of admirable acts of valor in battle- Kevtok had seen it. –But to abandon a position of defense without even a shot fired at one's enemy was nothing less than shameful.

-If one was fated to die in battle, it was unthinkable to the officer to tarnish the sacrifice by taking the fatal wound in the back.

Serhot Ran from Kevtok's company came to the ground all about him and instantly formed up into assault teams to begin pressing forward in the company of norghil Regult units that were moving up from the west and building density.

Random and almost constant fire from the far less disciplined norghil who showed all the signs of combat intoxication common to their kind was irksome to Kevtok- but he made no attempt to intervene. The indignities suffered by their kind in the foothills and open land west had to be answered for on some level- and the fact that in the process they were sweeping a path forward made the sweeping blaze of particle beam fire tolerable.

The structures common to non-combatant micronians that Kevtok had become familiar with but whose exact purposes were still not clear all fell easily and quickly to minimal effort. Fires were quick to develop and rise, thickening the air with smoke providing some degree of cover for the advancing units from visual and infra-red tracking.

Even if the micronians would not stand and fight within the city, Kevtok knew that the sight of it burning in their retreat would have an advantageous effect when the 9th Mechanized Corps was able to overtake them on open ground to finish what had been started here.

"Lord", Point Lieutenant Hyra announced herself to Kevtok, following immediately with the request, "-I request permission to exit our forward line with my platoon and push east to the other end of this population center to catch the enemy on their flank as they retreat…"

"Denied.", Kevtok replied to Hedra as the flow of Regults began to build to a flood, "A whole corps will be moving over this ground in minutes. We've broken their hold on this ground as ordered, and I have lost enough Serhot Ran for today. We will rally our Warriors and move on to the next assignment consistent with our abilities-."

Clearly disappointed but dutiful, Hyra replied, "Yes, Lord-. Understood."

"Where is Point Lieutenant Moyrt?", Kevtok asked Hyra in a segue spawned from the conspicuous absence of the Warrior who formed the other half of a pair commonly seen in each other's company.

Kevtok had last seen the junior officer in flight above the foothills to the west. He had first voiced his plan to finish micronian pilots who had abandoned their stricken fighters, and at Kevtok's last sight of him he had broken away to commit to it.

The plan, adopted quickly by other Serhot Ran, had incensed the remaining micronian pilots in the fight, but at the same time had thrown them into disarray as their focus had changed suddenly from offense to defense of their comrades.

Kevtok's attention had shifted as quickly to the tactical advantage that had been handed to him and the seizing of the initiative. He had lost track of Moyrt and only now recognized that he was unaccounted for.

Hyra's voice was mastered, but told of concern as she answered, "I do not know, Lord-. I haven't seen him since the aerial engagement was getting hot-. ..Lord, I request permission to-."

"Denied.", Kevtok said, knowing the request developing and cutting Hyra short, "At this point, Moyrt is either alive or he is not-. We rally the company _first_ and then we will strike out looking for Moyrt."

"Yes, Lord.", Hyra complied, masking her growing anger at Moyrt.

Moyrt often rode the fine and blurred line that separated audacity and stupidity in battle, and many times he had walked away from his leaning towards impulsiveness unscathed.

–But it only took Fate's decision against you once, Hyra knew….

Between icy flashes of panic and fiery surges of anger, Hyra resolved that perhaps for Moyrt's sake it was _best_ if he were dead. –Death's judgment and execution was quick compared to what she had planned for him if he were still amongst the ranks of the living.

No missiles.

75 rounds remaining in the gun pod.

-And one _pissed-off alien_ ….

This was not a scenario that could be spun in any way to have a _good side._

-And yet this was the hand Winters was prepared to play.

Petrel Six, who in death did not even enjoy the dignity of having his name known to Winters, had been the wound that the Green Bandit had inflicted on the squadron leader.

Skinny had been the salt poured into it.

Notions of "social differences" taken into account, the killing of a defenseless adversary still crossed a line and required a reckoning. -And Winters would have the Green Bandit pay for the breech of the unspoken rules.

It was just a matter of finding him….

By the time Winters had crossed the outer limits of Santiago Papasquiaro in chase of the damaged power armor, the trail of grey smoke it had been billowing from its boosters had gone to dark charcoal.

Why, with engine failure clearly imminent the Zentraedi had not simply gone to ground in the midst of Zentraedi units that were now moving by the score through the outer western edges of the city was beyond Winters comprehension- unless the alien too realized that there was a matter to be settled between them and a place for it required where there would be no outside interference.

Its engines had faltered completely, dropping it from the sky in just suck an area of the city. Winters had lost sight of it in overflight as it plowed through a second, low rise building and seemed sure to wreck a third.

The squadron leader was ten blocks further on to the northeast before he had converted his Veritech first to Guardian mode to descend to the civilian-vacated streets, and once there to Battloid to take up the hunt.

Traveling south along the first street that permitted it amongst buildings tall enough to conceal the Battloid's movements, Winters moved quickly in the hope that the Green Bandit's less than graceful landing had stunned or incapacitated the Zentraedi operating it. An even better option would have been to find that the suit had failed altogether, forcing the pilot to abandon it with only his or her sidearm for defense.

Not sporting, Winters had begun to thought- but still more sporting than the odds the Zentraedi bastard had given Skinny.

Turn-about was still fair play.

As the blocks passed, and Winters entered a gutted _barro_ that still burned from collapsed heaps that hours before had been buildings, the evidence of the initial struggle for Santiago Papasquiaro presented itself. A half dozen wrecked Regults- two split open at the seams by penetrating missile warheads and the others butchered by gun pod shells- seemed to still face off in death against the sole wreck of a Gen-1 Gladiator whose open hatch and wisps of smoke from within suggested that the driver had survived to escape after ensuring the technology within would be secure from enemy analysis by use of a thermite grenade.

Winters had certainly seen worse this day and he had not so much as slowed at the sight but in the passing of the microcosm of war _better judgment_ began to catch up with the pilot, and worse- began to penetrate his thoughts.

The Green Bandit could as easily still be functional as not.

Even if it was _bingo missiles_ , its energy weapons would still function as long as the power flowed-.

-Or, for that matter the alien could simply play hide-and-seek until the thousands of its comrades headed Winters' way overtook the city with him, alone, in it.

" _Jack, Fat Boy is thirty seconds out!_ ", Vice bellowed with all of the subtlety of a training sergeant as he made a high-speed pass over Winters' Battloid low enough that the squadron leader could have reached up and touched the other Valkyrie in passing.

"I've got the blue ditto bastard that snuffed Skinny cornered around here somewhere- can you guide me in?"

Winters became aware that not only had he slowed the advance of his Battloid to a near creep, his GU-11 leveled out before him and sweeping the street at the ready- but also that he was no longer sure that it was _him_ doing the cornering.

"They got Skinny?", came Vice's voice next, he also being close by not to Winters' surprise.

"I ran the bastard to ground and am going to square it-.", Winters said, then suddenly feeling impatient, snarled, " _Does anyone have eyes on this bastard?!"_

Dalton was equally short in his reply, " _Let the damn bomb get `im, Jack! -We've got no time for this!"_

An explosion interceded in the exchange, one powerful enough to rock the buildings around Winters' Battloid and shake the last shards of shattered glass from broken window panes. Like an exaggerated beacon lit to mark the origin of the explosion, an oily fireball rolled high above the building tops only blocks away beneath a scatter of tumbling, dismembered Destroid limbs and modules.

Winters had his answer.

"Southwest of you, six hundred meters!", Vice announced from his redundant observation.

InfoLink provided Winters with a flash of a target indicator box, courtesy of Vice's radar through Oden's compilation and distribution- but it was only a momentary glimpse that told him little more than what the explosion had made obvious.

With the _X-Rau_ 's position clearer now- relatively- it was now just a matter of the _approach._

Winters declined the seductive lure of the _direct approach_ \- a quick transformation to Guardian Mode, a thruster-driven vault of several blocks to drop down upon the alien's head like the embodiment of vengeance itself….

-And likely get shot to pieces and be left scattered across two blocks as street rubbish keeping the company of the anonymous, similarly vanquished Destroid whose explosion had marked the Green Bandit's location.

Governed by the path of street that Dalton and Vincenz had found him on, Winters found himself moving west as fast as his Battloid's legs would move him. It was a spontaneous decision, better than the "death from above" option by virtue of being able to move behind the cover of the local real estate. Flank out west, then cut south to hook around the alien, _possibly_ getting behind it…

A single stride into the intersection Winters had elected to cross found him in a storm of plasma bolts that exploded craters out of the pavement at his Battloid's heels and demolished the southern faces of the buildings to his left. Winters only had a glimpse of the Zentraedi machine, smoking and battered but still massive and threatening, before another building was between them and began to disintegrate under the alien's continuing fusillade.

"He's moving on you, Jack!", came a warning- this time from Dalton who had to be somewhere above.

Winters was into the next intersection of city streets a fraction of a second before the power armor appeared a block south, giving him that much lead time to aim and fire. The targeting reticule was just off center mass on the power armor, just below its glowing red eye as Winters clamped down on the trigger to fire the GU-11.

Moyrt felt the sharp pain of metal spall penetrating flesh along his right abdomen just blow the ribs to his upper thigh beneath the heavy bludgeoning of his armor absorbing gun shells. His aim in progress was thrown wide as the impact of kinetic rounds around his center of gravity spun his Nacht-Rau and threw him to the ground beneath an arcing spray of fire from his Nador rifle.

As the point lieutenant shoulder-rolled through the tumble that would have otherwise laid he and his combat suit out prone before the enemy, the paved surface around him exploded with columns of ejected earth as a second burst of fire from the micronian mecha's weapon saturated the area in a sloppy follow-on to the burst that had sent him to the ground.

A flash filled Moyrt's field of view as his Nador rifle exploded in his suit's hands from hits by the micronian's gunfire. The wind left him as a shell from the same burst smashed into his armor at the lower left chest, transferring shards of terilium from the suit's interior into the point lieutenant's side.

Moyrt's first real sight with recovering vision was of the micronian mecha, thin and frail like the creature piloting it but unblemished by combat. It was drawing down on him again in a more deliberate, disciplined fashion that told of a warrior with some experience governing impulse to make the most of initiative.

The point lieutenant, shamefully defensive, lost sight of the micronian mecha as he dove his combat suit behind the cover of a mostly intact structure.

25 rounds – _that would do_.

Winters had spent fifty rounds firing wildly with the chaos of the sudden contact with the _X-Rau_ , but it had been more governed than a rookie's panicked "spray & pray". He had seen the alien's fear-inspiring rifle shatter magnificently in the alien's grip, and had seen also several solid hits on the power armor itself before the pilot had retreated.

-If he could press the attack while the alien was still rattled, Winters was sure that 25 rounds would be more than enough to finish the deed.

-Only, the alien was _not_ as rattled as Winters had hoped.

As the VF-1S Battloid reached the corner around which the Nacht-Rau had withdrawn scarcely moments before, the alien reached it too on the return to the fight.

Winters' overwrought mind was able to recognize the savaged remains of a Regult Combat Pod, devoid of legs and missing the rear hemisphere of its rounded main body as the X-Rau charged at him using the Regult's remains as an improvised shield.

Instinct clicked and Winters fired in the instant before the Regult-shield and GU-11 muzzle met with the force of the charging combat suit.

With a sensation considerably less subtle than a full-running rugby tackle by a player twice his size, Winters found his Battloid skidding out of control and on its back with the torturous sound of terilium alloy grating against pavement filling the pilot's compartment and his ears.

The skid halted abruptly as Winters lost his Battloid's view of the passing, smoke-filled sky to the resulting debris of its head and shoulders staving in a storefront that had been in its path of uncontrolled transit.

A shrill tone filled Winters' ears, one that his racing mind did not instantly recognize as anything but a warning.

Time for analysis was brief as the pilot felt powerful hands grasp the ankles of his Battloid and wrench it free of the building that had continued to disintegrate around him- then like a crude approximation of a shot-putter, hurl the Battloid into the buildings across the city street.

-And in that moment, Winters recognized the meaning of the tone that remained unwavering in its report.

Fat Boy's payload was in guided freefall and singing its final moments to detonation.

The MOAB's deployment was not the relief to Winters that it likely was to others given the circumstances. He picked his Battloid up out of a pile of former building and turned to face the Zentraedi as it tore a steel I-beam free of the structure Winters had partially occupied previously for purposes that were all too clear.

" _Run Jack!"_

Dalton's imperative coincided with a hail of laser fire that saturated building, street, and power armor alike in a pelting spray that seemed too dense in its storm of bolts to have come from only two strafing Valkyries.

Beneath the low-level, high-speed pass of Dalton and Vincenz's fighters, Winters saw the X-Rau stagger- but he did not linger to confirm a fall. He threw his Battloid into a full run east, grateful that it was responding normally and sensing that the machine itself was grateful to him for the decision to leave the engagement.

The warning tone from the MOAB seemed louder, more urgent, and somehow right on Winters' heels as his Battloid continued to accelerate through the vacated city street, passing stall speed for the Valkyrie's winged forms.

As it neared the maximum speed the Battloid would run, Winters made a practiced, booster-driven leap and flipped the transformation controls back to the "Fighter' position while praying fervently that no structural damage had been sustained that might impede the complex and intricate metamorphosis of the Veritech from anthropomorphic robot to conventional aircraft.

Winters was relieved to find that his credit with The Almighty was not yet shot as Battloid's breastplate shield drew back from over the canopy to return to its function as the #1 Dorsal Panel in Fighter form. The nose of the Valkyrie was above the horizon and Winters could feel the lift and control surfaces starting to bite into the air as the final, soft "thuds" of modular parts returning to their Fighter-mode configurations told the pilot he was nearly in the clear.

There was a final kick as the engines powered up with the movement of the throttles, and the rapid falling away of Santiago Papasquiaro only served to confirm in Winters' mind The Lord's blatant disregard for his many transgressions and offenses.

As _Marilyn_ climbed through 2,500m the MOAB's warning tone ended with as little notice as its initiation.

The flow of Zentraedi mecha out of the cut in the mountain chain and over the ridge lying west of Santiago Papasquiaro fed into waves of Regult variants sweeping east and filling the flatlands.

It was over the center point between foothills and city limits that the MOAB detonated.

Beneath the massive fireball that appeared at 1,200m above the parched earth, Regults in running advance were crushed mid-stride out to a radius of a kilometer. Nearly three regiments were lost almost instantly.

As the pressure wave continued expanding in all directions, vegetation was incinerated and mecha thrown from its feet- swept before the invisible force as easily as the dust and rock that formed a rolling wall that marked visibly the progression of destruction.

As north, south, and west Zentraedi mecha continued to be thrown skyward before the diminishing force of the MOAB's pressure wave, the western limits of Santiago Papasquiaro flattened and added itself to storm of flying debris as the carpet of invisible force rolled east through the mid-rise brick and steel structures of the town's center. Ruptured gas lines and other combustibles ignited in the wave's wake and began to immediately add smoke to the dense, ground-level cloud o dust that had been raised.

Then, at the moment when the pressure wave seemed as though it would continue until it touched all four corners of Earth- there was a sudden retreat. The void created by the MOAB's enormous consumption of oxygen and displacement of air collapsed, sucking the expanding ring of dust and smoke back to the center where it rose skyward in a column and plateaued in a churning, black, mushroom cloud.

An unnatural stillness followed as the landscape itself seemed stunned by this single assault upon it.

Winters was still shaking off the brutality of the MOAB's shockwave and thanking God (yet again) that his Valkyrie's wings had remained attached when he had found himself in improvised formation with Dalton and Vincenz.

Santiago Papasquiaro was nearly lost to sight now, the air above it rapidly growing opaque with smoke and the settling dust of the mushroom cloud that had lost its distinct shape in a progressive collapse.

Yet, as impossible as it seemed there were signs of life on the devastated landscape- but not the kind that the pilots of the three ship flight were elated to see.

Zentraedi units, small and sparse in their density at first but then building in number and strength began to reoccupy the void opened by the MOAB as they succeeded their fallen comrades by advancing over their twisted and flattened remains on the movement east.

"-And we barely slowed them down-.", Winters muttered, sharing only a part of the longer, rambling train of thought rolling through his brain, "-Skinny's gone."

"Yeah, _we know_.", Dalton replied, the tone to his voice not having lost its edge and having taken on a brooding quality, "Dodger too."

" _Dodger too?_ ", Winters repeated, implying numerous questions in only two words.

There was a long silence from Dalton that Vincenz filled by way of explaining, "Blitz had two Green Bandits tie on to him after Skinny bailed and Dodger and Pinball moved in to clear them. One of `em reversed on Dodger and it was too close. –Took them both down. A real shit sandwich, Jack- that's what today is…"

"It's the starting end of a _buffet_ I think-.", Winters mused mirthlessly.

" _Maybe you ought to take a plate like everyone else instead of refilling the serving trays_.", Dalton said with the edge of a rusty razor and the clear intent to instigate.

"What now?", Winters replied feeling the burn of a malicious jab taken without warning from an unexpected direction.

"You heard me just fine-.", Dalton replied without hint of backing down, "Didn't I get a lecture a few nights ago about something like the shit we just pulled you out of?.. –Nevermind we had to break off of the main fight to keep you from gettin' your ass kicked up between your shoulder blades-. _Oh, you heard me just fine, Jack-._ "

"I don't think I like your tone, Freddy-.", Winters said, his voice icy and even, "We'll pick this up later."

" _Damn right we will_...", Dalton affirmed.

"-Uh, _superior officers_ -..", Vice interjected, sounding serious enough in those few words to immediately derail the verbal brawl that was ensuing, "Open your radar range- we've got more immediate problems."

Winters tapped at the touch controls on the cockpit's central MFD, increasing the display's scale until he understood his wingman's meaning.

Nearly a thousand kilometers outside of his own Valkyrie's radar range, but easily observed and relayed by the local AWACS's more powerful systems, waves of Red Bandits were being tracked high out over the Pacific. In hypersonic descent from orbit, their larger formation formed a great crescent that curved north and east well into southern areas of The Outlands.

The enemy's "top cover" was late, but had finally arrived.

Long-range SAM batteries were already engaging from positions scattered all over the Durango landscape and were filling the sky with the best and only immediately available defense. Winters watched the missile tracks for a moment, knowing from recent experience that while the initial SAM fire would be impressive, the batteries would not be able to maintain the necessary volume of fire to counter the number of Gnerls that the enemy could throw into the fight.

The SAM batteries were only buying a precious little time.

-And with his fighter's hard points empty, and his GU-11 lying under a heap of rubble somewhere kilometers behind in a Mexican town that he would likely never see again- Winters was grateful for that precious little time.

"All units, Mirage-.", came the expected and dire call from the AWACS, "Withdraw immediately to Fallback Position Alpha and stand by for additional instructions. Covering reinforcements are inbound, Bull's Eye zero-nine-nine at eighty, angels thirty-two…"

Action Commander Kevtok stood in moderated disbelief at what the micronians had done to their own population site so readily, and so soon after mounting such an effort to garrison and defend it.

What had been an abandoned but otherwise serviceable and salvageable city of a lesser order only minutes before when Kevtok and a portion of his Serhot Ran had landed to regroup and help clear it of the enemy now stood slumped or flattened away from the direction of the devastating weapon that the enemy had dropped.

Regults now traveled at company strength in column through the established avenues laid down by the city's builders as well as creating paths of their own over the wreckage of demolished micronian structures. Where a battle of some ferocity had been in the making, now only unimpeded passage had materialized.

Kevtok felt a measure of frustration that the initial clash of equally determined opponents had not culminated in a more spirited fight, but as a Warrior he was unconcerned. The micronians were on the run in open country, and while they still had the capacity to fight fiercely and bring to bear weapon systems of crude sophistication but great lethality – they were showing the signs of collapse and desperation.

-And combat in open country _belonged_ to Zentraedi Warriors as earned by generations of conflict with the Invid.

But there would be casualties.

"Is he alive or not, Hyra?", Kevtok asked of the point lieutenant, interrupting the report of his executive officer who was in the process of reassembling the Serhot Ran unit on this shattered ground. This itself was a task infused with revelation-. In the portions of his lieutenant's thorough report that he had allowed himself to hear, the savagery with which the micronian transformable fighters had fought, and the cost in Serhot Ran blood had become obvious.

Point Lieutenant Moyrt, it seemed, could be an addition to the list of those claimed by Fate this day.

Hyra, her hands now tacky with Moyrt's drying blood that had transferred to them during the effort of extracting him from his suit that itself was almost unrecognizable from the damage it had sustained was uncertain on how to reply to her lord and commander. Moyrt, propped up in a reclined, seated position into the armpit of his ruined combat suit was weak from the blood loss of wounds sustained to multiple points on his body and every limb. His breathing was labored, but still regular though, and his mind blunted only slightly with shock.

"I'm going to need another combat suit before the day is done, I think-.", Moyrt said- it being unclear to Hyra whether he was serious and delusional, or whether it was an attempt at humor.

"You're going to need a complete change of blood and a week in the infirmary is what you're going to need.", Hyra replied, opening and applying the last of the bandage pads from the combined sources of Moyrt's and her own medical packs.

Moyrt groaned with the burning of the coagulating agent that treated the pad as it made contact with a deep gash along his left thigh.

-It appeared that Hyra might have been more on target than he had been willing to concede.

"Hyra?!..", Kevtok demanded, the irritation at having to ask twice clear in his voice and not at all helped by other losses suffered that day.

"Moyrt's too dumb to die, Lord!..", Hyra replied, making certain to apply extra pressure to the bandage pad she had just applied- _mostly_ to ensure its effectiveness, "He needs to be evacuated from the field immediately though."

"I've requested a shuttle for our wounded already.", Kevtok replied, "It's on its way. Do not let him slip into shock!"

Moyrt bit back a cry as Hyra worked the coagulant thoroughly into his wound.

"I won't, Lord!", Hyra replied, then added so only Moyrt could hear, "..No, he's staying _fully_ conscious."

 _This had to have meaning-._

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt was growing more and more certain of it, and though he did not consider himself impervious to harm it was clear that Fate was choosing him to survive for something more.

-For today, at least.

He, after all, had not died the night before when the micronians had taken the very ground out from beneath his feet and sent him plummeting down a mountainside into the valley below. He had survived the most intense moments of air attack on the ridgeline and exposed mountain slopes now falling behind to the east. -And Fate had not chosen him to be in the open land between the foothills of the mountains and the micronian population center when the massive explosion had killed hundreds of comrades in an instant.

Fate had seen him through too many instances that should have claimed his life for there not to be something greater that it wanted him to do.

If only Fate were more communicative- because Tahlt was as uncertain as to what Fate would have him do as he was sure that there was a mandate upon him.

He knew though that it lay somewhere ahead.

-Or perhaps it was some kind of delirium….

The blast, unparalleled in Tahlt's experience by anything with the exception of an orbital heavy gun bombardment, had thrown his ill-gotten Regult powerfully, sending it tumbling through insubstantial micronian structures and over others of its kind like an irregular ball tossed carelessly by a powerful arm. Seat restraints and the protection of his helmet had still not prevented several noteworthy blows that had filled Tahlt's vision with great fields of glittering light.

Immediately following such punishment, Tahlt realized that his judgment might be too unsound to accurately distinguish between matters of chance and acts of Fate.

-But he knew what he f _elt_ to be true as he moved his Regult over the uneven terrain of flattened urban landscape.

Tactical frequencies were alive with chatter and overlapping communications as units farther east began to close upon the retreating micronians and the direct fire exchange resumed and roaming skirmishes began to build in intensity.

In light of this, as banks of smoke opened and closed with breaths of wind, it was a peculiar sight to Tahlt to see four warriors of his caste dismounted and at work with gauntlet-clad hands at the rubble of a collapsed building. Enough debris had been cleared by the Warriors to reveal the upper portion of a Te'Dak Tohl Glaug Officer's Pod- identifiable as such by its markings.

A Te'Dak Tohl sub-lieutenant directed the clearing activity from several paces back until the armored canopy of the officer's mecha was cleared and could be opened in its battered state with some difficulty by the collective effort of the four warriors. The occupant of the Glaug, bloodied and visibly injured at multiple points was extracted by the warriors whose lack of experience in the practice showed in the agonized thrashing of the Te'Dak Tohl officer and the barked reprimands of the overseeing sub-lieutenant.

Still under a hail of scorn from the Te'Dak Tohl sub-lieutenant, the four warriors bore the officer away in the direction from which Tahlt had just come. He had seen Te'Dak Tohl warriors and officers gathered at a point some distance back- some injured as severely as this officers, other less so, but all under the care of med-techs.

With battle escalating within several minutes sprint in a Regult or Glaug, the effort being expended on an insignificant few struck Tahlt as odd.

The scene and thought were nearly out of sight and clear of mind when Tahlt by chance caught a glimpse of another Zentraedi form revealed without warning by the passing of a dense patch of dark smoke.

Of the warrior caste, by the insignia on his armor breastplate, the warrior carried himself toward what must have sounded like indications of assistance on an unsteady but otherwise unharmed left leg while the right dragged showing clear signs of multiple breaks both above and below the knee.

The Te'Dak Tohl sub-lieutenant who had overseen the extraction of an officer of his caste could be seen to challenge and speak to the wounded warrior. The warrior's reply was immediate and showed no signs of insubordination or disrespect.

The sub-lieutenant's reaction of drawing his blaster and firing it at less than four paces' distance into the opened helmet of the injured warrior was therefore shocking to Tahlt who had already seen death in far more grotesque forms over the past two days.

The warrior was still crumpling to the ground as he and the Te'Dak Tohl sub-lieutenant passed out of the peripheral field of view of Tahlt's Regult.

Ahead, through thinning smoke and breaks in the solid visual obstructions created by the broken city Tahlt could make out the flash of battle that perhaps held the meaning of Fate's favor shown towards him these past days.

-But even as Tahlt increased the speed of his Regult's advance, joining others of multiple fragmented and disjointed units in a building charge toward combat, the thought of the wounded warrior shot in the face without clear cause would not surrender the position it held at the back of Tahlt's mind.

Fate could be indiscriminate as readily as it could be calculating.

859


	11. Doolittle

**Chapter Ten**

 **Doolittle**

"I have high confidence in this operation."

"The objectives are clear and within reason, the plan is bold but not overzealous, and we are bringing to bear sufficient mission assets to execute the plan effectively. –I have fought longer odds before."

"Aboard _SDF-1_ , during the _first War_ , Gloval took much longer odds than this, and _frequently_. –But he was compelled to fight those odds."

"We- no, _I_ am actively and knowingly rolling the dice on a long-odds gamble risking the lives of irreplaceable thousands who crew the ships of this task force, risking our new Flagship, and possibly risking determination of the course of the War itself for little more than a declaration of defiance."

"-Yet I agree with Breetai and am confident that this plan can achieve its objectives."

"The fear that I keep to myself is the outcome for the civilian population and our forces left on Earth. There is no way of knowing what the ramifications of this operation will be for them, but when I allow my imagination to take the helm on those dark thoughts- the _horrors_ I see…"

Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter

 **Civilian Relocation Center 18,**

 **Bakersfield, California**

Having experience with "civilian relocation centers" as many members of the population who had survived The Zentraedi Holocaust had, Roxanna felt a particular disdain for the term itself. By foregoing use of entirely appropriate terms like _evacuee_ , or _refugee_ there seemed to be an implication that the civilians being housed within the plastic-smelling, nylon walls and beneath the camouflage pattern rooves of RDF-Army tents, sleeping on garrison-issue cots under olive-drab blankets were somehow there independent of external, world events. There was also the mildly patronizing military precept that by embellishing a thing with unnecessary syllables that somehow one masked the nature and the truth of the thing.

No, Roxanna was content to be a _refugee_ , or _evacuee_ \- or whatever the hell the proper term was over a _relocated civilian._

Had she had a measure of control or had her will had even the slightest of influence on anything, she would have been behind the bar of her no-frills establishment catering to the rougher specimens of military culture assigned to RDF Edwards AFB, and enjoying the prime profit-making hours of the evening.

Instead, she had to find contentment in a conservatively self-rationed cigarette enjoyed after a dinner served in a compartmentalized tray, courtesy of the same RDF that had been so generous as to _relocate_ her.

Roxanna was not bitter- far from it.

She simply had previous experience with this mode of quasi-nomadic living- more than some, less than others. She, like almost everyone old enough to be reading at a second grade level, had memories of other camps called "home" as a result of other wars. She knew herself to be counted amongst the "lucky" as she had had a camp to call home following the last war much as she had now.

Others had not been so fortunate, and many had been taken by starvation, exposure, and disease.

Many living now would be the nameless stock of future tales of war-brought hardship and suffering told to generations hence- _hopefully._

There were camps similar to Civilian Relocation Center 18 all over the continent, and all around the world really. Right now, all were filled with civilians considering themselves amongst "the fortunate" because the shock of war itself had not thawed in them yet. The War it seemed had come most heavily to this hemisphere, but gravitating toward the continent to the south. No alien legions could be seen marching on hallowed Terran soil for hundreds of kilometers, and beside losses to units from Edwards, the most jarring indicators of conflict had been power-loss and a single alien mecha dispatched with considerable collateral civilian property damage by Roxanna's acquaintance, Winters, within the Edwards City limits nights before. –And even this was an event that was more received by the civilian population as a costly curiosity than a herald of war.

Civilians removed from the "hot zones" whose lives had just begun to resume a semblance of normalcy after The First Robotech War would not be shocked by the arrival of the second for long, and would not be content to live behind walls of nylon indefinitely. The sense of "good fortune" and gratitude had a brief lifespan in a population separated from the distractions of normal, everyday life.

-That friction with the Center's _protectors_ would come later.

For now the civilians were thankful, but that honest sentiment never lasted.

There was a sizable minority in the Center's population that Roxanna had a kinship with and an understanding of that the other civilians did not. This population was neither distracted by their current "fortune", nor would they be in short order by thoughts of abandoned homes and businesses. The camp was heavily populated by the spouses and families of the same units from RDF Edwards who were in the thick of The War at this moment. –And unlike the other displaced around them, the news and video footage from thousands of kilometers away held more than a mere pedestrian interest.

Like Catherine Home, those who had lost loved ones already were held at the center of an invisible circle and attended to and consoled by those who shared the military lifestyle but by Providence had been spared that sacrifice.

The consolers though genuine in their care for the grieving were nonetheless serving themselves as well- filling their time and conscious thought with distractions from the inevitable terrors that were part of military family life. They received the same news as the pure civilians, but what those with no military affiliation saw as keeping them somehow connected to The War was for the families of the combatants a perpetually open door for the admission of demons.

Roxanna had never been critical of women who had chosen to take military husbands, nor for that matter men who had taken military wives. Like all decisions, it was a gamble- whether carefully calculated or just a toss of the dice, but it had been a gamble that she had avoided intentionally in the days when suitors had been more numerous.

Roxanna was comfortable with that decision and unapologetic for it, though with wisdom that was only acquired by living and with the benefit of hindsight she had become aware- _acutely aware_ recently- that she had not dodged that bullet at all.

Military spouses feared the receipt of a single telegram borne compassionately by the chaplain. Because of the scores of regular faces seen over her bar who had somehow become family over the years, Roxanna found herself fearing them all.

A tug at the sleeve of her jacket coincided with Roxanna's cigarette burning down to the filter. Seeing that it was Rio seeking her attention and carrying that sad excuse for a life-worn alley cat was ample reason to not light another.

"What's happening now, sweetie?", asked the displaced bar owner as she dropped the cigarette butt to the ground where she could grind it into the dirt with the toe of her shoe to add to the collection of this improvised smoking spot.

Rio motioned urgently toward the mess tent where Roxanna and she had taken dinner as part of the last scheduled serving sometime before. Like the other six mess tents in the camp, they were open to general use when meal service was not in progress. For many _relocated civilians_ this meant the opportunity to plant themselves before the single flat panel television to get some sense of the goings-on in the world as conveyed by the Robotech Defense Forces Network.

News and video footage aired by the military broadcasting system was by its nature more filtered and controlled. Images of catastrophe were always blunted by RDF personnel engaged in assistive activities, and now with the sole story being the war, images of destroyed mecha and combat casualties were always the _enemy's losses._ –And even these video centerpieces were punctuated by healthy doses the RDF doing good for civilians in one war-related form or another.

It was bullshit, Roxanna knew. It was bullshit hastily packaged and delivered to an extended military family and to a public who could see the fertilizer for fertilizer if they were capable of linking two consecutive, coherent thoughts together.

-But it was bullshit that the very same people _needed_ to see. After all, the war effort was now only beginning and it was far too early to concede that anyone known by the viewing audience might die or that future victory was not as certain as the setting and rising of the sun.

Rio led Roxanna through the free-swinging plastic flap/door of the mess tent, drawing her with the arm not occupied by the boney feline and into the periphery of the conundrum she had expected to find.

Spouses- wives, _and_ husbands who Roxanna knew not only by name but by the units they were martially affiliated with as well as a lesser number of girlfriends and boyfriends in a tight cluster, fixated on the same LCD, HD screen. Others, _many others_ whom Roxanna did not know were also gathered and transfixed, but it was the military spouses who seemed the most tightly packed and were the ones who drew Roxanna's attention most intently.

There were no children of any of the families present as distant images of fierce battle filled a jittery and bouncy camera frame beneath the superimposed screen top banner that read: "GEMINI COALITION FORCES WITHDRAW SOUTH FROM DURANGO."

It was the absence of children, the natural instinct of parents to shield them from the inescapably distressing images that even a filtered news broadcast would show that led Roxanna back to the great mystery she had become witness to in entering the mess tent. Before her was the paradox of those ensnared by images of war and fearing their meaning. A group reluctantly greedy for any news they could receive, and at the same time insulating their children from it.

This was the hell that war was to the families and what it would be so long as the fighting continued.

Roxanna knew it was an equation of the human condition with no resolution- there was only working through the problem. As much as they could, the spouses would glut themselves on any information for as long as they could manage before withdrawing to deal with the consequences in their own personal ways.

Roxanna understood because she knew she would be doing the same.

And then came the necessary lie as Roxanna put her arm around Rio's shoulder in the face of images of distant violence.

"-It's gonna be fine, sweetie… They've got each other looking out for them and it's gonna be just fine-."

 **ASC Durango Base, Mexico**

The unexpected blow to the kidney had been enough of a distraction to Winters to make it relatively easy for his attacker to separate him from his Valkyrie's extended crew ladder and toss him unceremoniously to the abrasive concrete of the tarmac.

It was no surprise to the squadron commander who his assailant was, just that he hadn't been given the courtesy afforded by civilized cultures of preparing for the aged schoolboy brawl that was coming.

"- _Et tu Freddy?.._ ", Winters managed as he found himself inexplicably dividing his efforts between getting to his feet and retrieving his helmet that had rolled free of his grip upon hitting the pavement.

Dalton's fist, still gloved in Nomex, connected solidly with Witners' head high on the cheekbone, filling his vision with stars and completely undamming his bladder control and emptying it into his suit's disconnected relief tube- a process that had started with the kidney blow moments earlier.

" _Get up, Jack!.._ ", Dalton growled as he seized Winters by his flight suit and began to haul him to his feet. With his left hand bearing this burden, his right cocked back in a fist again, " _I can't enjoy this if you're just lying there!.._ "

Winters allowed his weight to remain dead in Dalton's grasp, snickering through the fading stars, "Reliving conversations with Linda?.."

-With that, it was going to get bad…

As Winters sensed the real beating was about to begin, he summoned all of his strength into an uppercut that he landed squarely in Dalton's groin, precisely where it would hurt the most.

Dalton lifted up onto his toes, grunting anticipation of the pain that would follow in a moment or two- but before it did he brought his weight down again behind his cocked fist whose flight was intercepted by Winters' face.

The squadron leader flopped heavily to the searing concrete that had been baking all day in the desert sun as the full, sickening agony he'd inflicted took hold of Dalton whose grip upon him had failed much as his knees were threatening to.

Winters found his helmet to be within his reach again, and grasping it by the strap, brought it up in a clumsy swing that met Dalton's bowed head with a solid _thud_.

A crowd representing three different squadrons, pilots and support crews alike formed instantaneously as the two pilots rolled back and forth in a tangle of punching and kicking more common to contenders a fifth their age than grown men. Sides were not taken openly by spectators, but sympathetic grunts and groans were free-flowing as blows intended to hurt without permanent damage were exchanged fiercely between combatants.

Colonel Ganyet Mumuni stood at six meters distance amongst others far more exhilarated by the fight, and at a total loss. The situation called for a primary school vice-principal, not a full bird, fighter wing commander. –And parallels might have ended with the shallow-rooted schoolboy savagery with which the two grappling pilots were now fighting, except somewhere in the unhinged hoard of eager spectators behind her- Mumuni heard _odds_ and wagers called out by the opportunistic on the outcome.

In thirty seconds, the collective lot had gone from the officer elite to a rabble of cannibals…

"Whell- should we throw a bucket a' water on `em, or somtethin'?"

The suggestion from Knight Hawk Squadron's plane captain and senior mechanic, DeVeo, was the first words Mumuni recalled hearing advocating the ending of the fight.

"I'm considering shooting both of them.", the colonel replied, though only partially in jest, "What's it about anyway?"

Lyle shrugged his ignorance as Dalton used the back of Winters' head to repeatedly thump the sidewall of _Marilyn'_ s forward tire.

Lt Col "Dingo" Duggan, present with his flight from the 1017th Werewolves took a moment between ringside suggestions to the brawlers to offer acquired, paternal wisdom with an Aussie twist to his superior.

"-Aw, let `em go a spell and work it out, there's barely any blood. Give `em fifteen minutes and they'll be mates again."

Mumuni sighed heavily, "Tempting as that is-."

The senior pilot pushed her way through the gathered crowd that had surged past her for a better view of the fight and their betting interests, motioning to others from Knight Hawk Squadron to assist. Unafraid of the flailing arms and legs, she drew back her right foot and twice landed a boot on each subordinate, ending the fight instantly.

There was an unspoken mix of shame and relief from both Winters and Dalton as they got to their feet before the wing commander, standing at attention as best they could for lack of anything more appropriate to do.

"So sorry to interrupt your little lovers' spat, but we really need to get on with the prosecution of _the war_.", Mumuni said flatly, "Would you mind lending a hand?"

Aware for the first time the trickle of blood running down the side of his chin from the left corner of his mouth, Winters wiped it away and replied, "Ready as always, ma'am. –We were just sorting out some administrative issues."

"Good.", Mumuni said, the stern tone still in her voice, "Because we're all airborne again in twenty. –Just as quick as we can re-arm. We're escorting transports south- we'll get the details as soon as we're wheels-up. Can you manage to not kill one another in the meantime?"

Winters relaxed his posture lightly, allowing Dalton to do the same and relieve some of the dull ache radiating from mistreated gonads.

"Leonard's really giving up Durango, eh?", Winters asked through the salty taste of his own blood.

Past the point of irritation, Mumuni opted to simply gesture north and say, "There are about a _half million_ dittos with itchy trigger fingers who haven't had the chance to fire a shot yet up that way-. If you feel you can take the war to them on your terms, let me know and I'll draft up the orders. _–Bang-up job so far today…_ "

Winters was hesitant, "-We _do_ live to follow the orders of our superiors though-."

"That would be a _welcome_ change-.", Mumuni said, walking away before she had finished speaking, "-And I'd have someone collect up any personal items you don't want to lose. I wouldn't bank on coming back here again. –Oh, and there _will be_ disciplinary action for this little tumble between you two."

When Mumuni was decidedly gone and out of earshot, Dalton snorted at Winters, "She is _not_ happy with you, Jack-."

" _Me?_ That sounded like an _us_ thing from where I was standing."

"Yeah, but she really wants to put your ass into a sling. That was the vibe I got.", Dalton countered.

"How about you?", Winters asked rubbing first the throbbing cheek that was going to bruise, "Are we square?"

"Oh, not by a _damn sight-_.", Dalton chuckled, " _You hit me in the balls…_ "

"Well, you made me _piss myself._ "

An unprovoked jab from Dalton turned Winters' head away and staggered him slightly.

"-And _that's_ for that comment about Linda. _That_ was the Rubicon, _asshole_."

As Winters swayed through the wooziness of the latest blow that would go unanswered, he placated himself with the fact that he would have a matching set of bruises now.

" _Yeah, I probably deserved that one-._ "

Duggan joined a mix of Winters' squadron and his own as they closed in to a safer proximity with the two officers who had been throwing punches less than a minute before. Money from impromptu betting changed hands in plain view of the two without apology.

"You Sheilas gonna claw each other's eyes out now, or just take up the slapping again?"

"We're taking break it seems.", Winters said.

"Somethin' `bout a war, Ah hear-.", Lyle suggested to Winters as he presented an open palm to Duggan and then flexed his fingers greedily.

Duggan slapped a thin stack of folded bills into the mechanic's hand, which the NCO quickly tucked into a pocket with other winnings.

"You all heard Switchblade-.", Winters grumbled as money continued to change hands around he and Dalton, "We're wheels-up again in twenty, which means _Lyle_ that you'll have to put off spending your new found fortune for a little while. _Christ!-_ How did you all have time to bet on this?... We were at it for like- _two minutes…_ "

"- _A new record for you I hear, Jack!.."_

" _Fuck you, Cisco!"_

" _-Sure, I've got two minutes!.._ "

Vincenz, who had found the inner rim of the crowd handed his element lead a handkerchief from the pocket into which he was now stuffing a roll of bills.

"You gotta move fast in this life, boss-. Opportunities ae where you find `em, y'know?"

Winters, now more fully aware of what was going on around him was beginning to sense the predominant direction that the betting had taken, "You bet on me, Vice- _right_?", Winters asked, applying pressure to his bleeding mouth.

"Well-."

" _Vice?.._ "

 _ **Artoc**_

Sub-General Caldettas sat at his position at the briefing table dedicating considerable effort to not showing his moderate irritation with Jekketh as the overall commander of Krymina's ground forces delivered his report.

It was not that the report was an unfavorable one. Jekketh, to Caldettas's reluctant admission was adequate in the areas of military strategy and planning, and within _defined boundaries_ was an effective commander. –And to his credit in this campaign, though it was substantially more complex in its objectives and operational constraints than any ever assigned to the 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl by The Robotech Masters, Jekketh's performance had been consistent to his reputation.

There was nothing _brilliant_ or innovative about the conduct of ongoing operations under Jekketh's command, but they were _effective_. –Collateral damage was rarely more than a passing consideration if thought of at all, and in the context of this campaign held only a slightly elevated consideration.

These were the loose constraints within which Jekketh operated well.

As Caldettas submitted to the ordeal of one of Sub-General Jekketh's self-aggrandizing briefings, he was reminded of what he knew to be one of his own shortcomings. Caldettas could not evade the truth that he could solitarily welcome a critical defeat, even a costly one, if it was Jekketh doing the failing. _That_ operational briefing would be worth attendance of all the others only to see Jekketh's overwrought ego humbled.

That decadent treat would have to come another day, and well for the Te'Dak Tohl that it should. As Jekketh strutted back and forth between holographic displays of various geographic locations while delivering his report- appearing as probably was his intent to carry the weight of each battle upon his head- the sub-general missed no opportunity to make the successes all about _him._

All that was required now to make Caldettas's revulsion complete was the slightest indication of satisfaction at _Jekketh's_ accomplishments from Supreme General Krymina.

"-While micronian resistance remains spirited, indications of their collapse are abundant and are growing more acute.", Jekketh continued, reaching after considerable length what hinted at being a _quantifiable_ element of his reporting.

Gesturing to a detailed, scale representation of the alien planet's largest continent and also to the one standing southwest, Jekketh swelled with saying, "Our actions in the sub-tropical, super-equatorial regions of Continents Three and Five are progressing _ahead_ of our most ambitious simulations and projections. Factors of great geographic area, combined with a lower density of enemy forces per unit of area are a variable- however, skill of maneuver and aggression that I insisted be the emphasis of our pre-operational exercises is now yielding the desired benefit with only acceptable losses, and those chiefly in our improved norghil units created for that very purpose."

"What rate of loss is that?", Caldettas asked, fully aware of the answer having previewed Jekketh's briefing materials in addition to having been an almost constant inhabitant of _Artoc_ 's command deck since the initiation of the campaign against the micronians and privileged to the monitoring performed there and the after action reports received. –It was however a simple way to scuff some of the self-applied polish and shine Jekketh had been applying liberally to himself for some time now.

"Between thirty and forty percent on average in vanguard norghil units.", Jekketh reported with some of the luster gone from his words, "-But again, this was the function of these units and anticipated in planning. Our Te'Dak Tohl forces overall have averaged less than five percent casualties- the highest being in units that we expected to suffer a higher rate of attrition- shock troop units, Serhot Ran, Gnerl pilots and so forth-."

"These losses amongst our most proficient and effective warriors is unfortunate and regrettable-.", Jekketh said, speaking now directly to Krymina as though to buttress himself from the insinuations of carelessness from her executive officer, "-But they were losses consistent with the function of these units. Now that the enemy's shell is cracked, our improved norghil units are more than adequate to shoulder the burden of the fight and absorb the necessary losses. In this mode of prosecution, there is _no scenario_ in which the micronians do not exhaust their forces before ours become ineffective."

"So your tactical determination is that we have more blood to spill than the enemy?", Caldettas clarified.

" _Norghil_ blood.", affirmed Jekketh by way of distinction, " _Not_ Te'Dak Tohl blood."

"-So long as there is that distinction...", Caldettas said, letting the point go. Supreme General Krymina, who sat clearly brooding in her chair at the head of the table was unaffected by the briefing's tangent. As this was clearly not the thread to pull to elicit the response he wanted, Caldettas saw no purpose in lingering on the point.

It would only mean subjecting himself to Jekketh's briefing longer than what was necessary.

"Norghil casualties and micronian resistance is most pronounced on Continent One- where Kevtok's reconnaissance mission made planetfall, and more so on Continent Two.", Jekketh continued with only a hint of reservation, "-And still the progress of operations is above the thresholds you set, Liege."

Krymina remained unblinking.

"Stiffer opposition was anticipated on these continents as Continent Two was discovered to be the seat of government for both major micronian factions. As a result of this and the significant presence of The Flower of Life in the equatorial and tropical regions of Continent One, it follows that there is a greater concentration of micronian combat and support forces."

Jekketh paused for a moment, partially to regain his footing for another push to glory, but also to gauge General Krymina's response which spoke neither of approval nor dissatisfaction.

"Bren's Corps has met constant resistance in its movement south, but Hesthira has broken out onto the enemy's left flank and a second axis of attack has been opened. Micronian airpower remains a nuisance and minor impediment to progress, however the micronian ground forces are unable to stand against the pressure being set on them. At this moment they are showing indications of retreat south to one or a combination of three possible positions ideal for renewing defense-."

"What of the search for Breetai?", Krymina asked bluntly.

To Caldettas's governed delight, Jekketh's briefing was arrested as abruptly and as delicately as had it run into an invisible rock face.

Krymina ground down the fragments of Jekketh's well-practiced presentation with less concern than the deck plates beneath her boot heels, saying, "I grow tired hearing of the realization of basic objectives assumed in planning. The micronians' inability to effectively counter or hold ground against our forces once landings were underway was never in doubt. The _critical_ element, and one that my senior staff appears to be _woefully apathetic_ in addressing is locating and crushing Breetai, his fleet, and the Robotech Factory he escaped with. Speak to me of _these things_ , not of what _I already know._ "

Jekketh deflated marvelously before Caldettas, whose inner revelry was subdued only by the fact that he would be reporting meager gains on the only topic in which Krymina was showing interest.

"Our initial search efforts have yielded no results up to this time, Supreme General. While frustrating, the search has not been in progress long enough to reasonably expect anything but reports of no contact. Many of our units are still in fold transit to their initial search positions that are at best calculated guesses as to where Breetai may have retreated with the micronian fleet."

"We are monitoring the deepest regions of space for fold activity through deployed Robotech Factories and The Network. We have spread ourselves thin deploying our own Fleet to search the nearest, most likely locations best suited to hide a fleet. –But the simple fact, Liege, is that time and patience will be required and much more frustration endured before we can hope for chance contact."

Krymina was unimpressed and immediate in her disdain, " _Insufficient_ Caldettas-. Every moment that Breetai has beyond our reach is a moment he is using to prepare his counterattack. I will not permit this. If it means cutting our deployed fleet units in half again to double the search area, I will do it. I will bring the battle to that evasive _norghil_ and destroy him in the den in which he has chosen to cower. I will add _landing ships_ to the effort if I have to-."

 _"Am I stating my intent clearly enough, Caldettas?"_

Caldettas, seeing the flush of Krymina's face to deeper blue as he felt his own complexion pale, found himself drifting in focus- thinking there might be some transference of color at work.

The speculation was short-lived in the assertion of the underlying thoughts that had caused the sub-general to blanch.

To satisfy Krymina's mandated timetable and vast search area, entire battle groups had been broken apart to squadron-size units before deploying to their initial, assigned areas. There, those squadrons would be forced to reduce themselves further. Search areas would be swept quickly by screens of ships at such great intervals that entire fleets could pass between sentries without detection.

The plan in its own ambition and aggressiveness was self-defeating.

Caldettas knew this.

Any _norghil_ more than twenty minutes dry from the stasis tube could see this.

-But worst, Supreme General Krymina knew this and showed no indication of even the consideration of relenting.

"I would recommend adhering to the established search plan before we change it, Liege.", Caldettas advised, "Many units have not even reached their initial search areas- as I said. It is far too early to assess the effectiveness of the plan and therefore too early to adjust for any deficiencies."

Caldettas was fairly certain that Krymina would not elect to have him terminated where he sat for insubordination, but in her state nothing was outside of the realm of possibility.

The Fleet could not be scattered more widely through space than what the standing orders already demanded without skirting the shoals of recklessness. -And in the standing orders Caldettas recognized the material risk to The 7th Grand Army's operational focus even if Krymina was refusing to.

 _Duty_ and _obedience_ were suddenly at odds, and Caldettas found himself squarely between the normally complementary pillars of The Warrior's Code.

Krymina fumed openly as her agitation and volatility fed and built upon itself for all to see at the slight either perceived or real from Breetai.

It was beyond these outer layers of fiery display, deep in her Warrior's Core where experience and calculation worked constantly that Caldettas knew Krymina dwelled. Her eyes registered these processes at work- but to what end they were working was not clear to the executive officer.

It was this uncertainty- the first time he had ever felt it in his service to Krymina- that gave Caldettas pause. He had planned and The 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl had trained for the achievement of one objective, but another was emerging.

"If Breetai will not come out to face me freely, then I will force him into action.", Krymina resolved, her voice becoming removed and distant, "If we deprive him of serenity in his planning, he will make a mistake and I will be poised to exploit it."

"-Jekketh, I will be making an alteration to ground operations with a new general order…."

 _Artoc_ 's infirmary functioned something like the repair slips of a Robotech Factory's spacedock, only instead of servicing the mobile mountains of metals, plastics, and technologies that were the warships of the Zentraedi Fleet- the infirmary serviced select members of the biological component of the same force.

Medical technicians were always the first line of treatment, even in administering care to the upper ranks- but these specialists were limited in their knowledge of the medical disciplines and at the techniques of applying them. Common illnesses through deep tissue wounds were the realm of the med-techs. Beyond that was providing the mercy and resource-sparing practice of _release from service_ , or where a wound was recoverable yet beyond simple treatment and when the warrior's value warranted, the med-tech could pass the ailing to the far more advanced skill of a ship's automated medical facilities.

Routine, impersonal, and mathematically quantified in evaluation was the robot-administered treatment of the infirmary- and so in the treatment of severe cases the subjects of treatment were rendered proportionately inert and compliant before the treatment regiment.

"Glaring at him will not cause Moyrt's wounds to heal any faster, Hyra."

Hyra, genuinely surprised while deep in thought, failed to prevent herself from starting at Action Commander Kevtok's mild admonishment. How her superior had entered the observation cyst of the infirmary's critical condition compartment without her having taken notice was almost as jarring to the point lieutenant as the start she had received.

It was fatigue and weariness from battle no doubt, coupled with the stresses of Moyrt's evacuation from the battle area and uncertainties that had followed regarding his very survival from the wounds he had suffered.

Most aggravating to Hyra in the way that Moyrt often caused her aggravation was that the cause of her consternation was also the one most secure from the toils of the ongoing campaign.

Hyra made a point to remind herself regularly though that Moyrt, despite his serene appearance was far from enjoying sanctuary from the burden that still yoked the other Serhot Ran. His struggle, despite its peaceful appearance was every bit as much one of life and death as that which comrades would be in up to their eyes again, and soon.

Moyrt lay in a medical capsule, tubes feeding him intravenously in addition to a steady stream of antibiotics and steroids, as an interface band about his forehead and temples kept him breathing the oxygen-rich air while at the same time rendering him comatose.

How long Moyrt would remain in this condition, the senior healers and medical technicians would not say- though there were indications that additional surgical procedures would be required to restore Moyrt to a functional, combat-ready physical state. –Cognitively and neurologically, a "full recovery" was beyond what the healers were willing to speculate. They had alluded to the damage done being beyond mere tissue damage.

Healers were a strange and frustrating sort, Hyra had found in her dealings with them.

Theirs was the only discipline in Service that was neither required to predict performance of their duties, nor accountable for not maintaining a high baseline of success in performing them.

–But they did speak skillfully and extensively about the whim of Fate.

"Fate favors this one, Hyra- his company is good to keep.", Kevtok said sounding now less like a senior officer and more like a concerned comrade- concerned for both Moyrt _and_ Hyra, "I was told he died twice in transit from the field to the operational support ship, and again during medical repair procedures. –And yet, he clings to life. Fate does favor this one for some reason."

"Warriors' talk has it that it had something to do with your favor and influence that he was revived three times.", Hyra said in relaxed fashion to her superior, "-And Fate had something to do with it as well."

"Warriors do talk.", Kevtok admitted without admitting anything more, "-I suspect the need for and value of Serhot Ran must have been known- and I have lost too many this day. Too many by far."

Hyra nodded toward the encapsulated Moyrt, "No need to concern yourself about that one, Lord-. As I've said before, he's too stupid to die."

"He does push the limits sometimes.", Kevtok agreed, knowing all too well.

"When do we go back in, Lord?", Hyra asked, allowing the conversation to stray from Moyrt.

"Uncertain.", Kevtok replied, "We have been listed as combat ineffective for the time being, because of our losses. – _Other_ factors may be at work as well…. I've requested replacements, and am working to acquire them from other similarly reduced Serhot Ran units. It will mean acclimating Warriors from other units to ours, but the benefit will be that we will not have to dry the stasis fluid from them and season them for battle."

"Agreed.", Hyra said, offering an unsolicited opinion that she knew would not offend.

"- _And then on to add more scars to our stories_ -."

"Lord?", Hyra asked- knowing by Kevtok's contemplative tone that suggested another party to the conversation who was not present that there was something beyond the non-sequitur string of words.

"Nothing-.", Kevtok said dismissing the words as easily as they had come, "I am recalling a conversation with another…."

" **Walhalla": The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

After-dinner coffee and tea service was more than the observance of a pleasant practice of hospitality in the formal salon of The Presidential Office within the Civilian Operations Wing of "Walhalla"- in these times it was a practical necessity.

President Valterven's keeping of his schedule meant a working supper at 2000hrs, leading almost immediately into his evening briefing by his ministers at 2100. War had done nothing to lessen the length of these briefings or the discussions and taskings that followed and often went late into the night, or as in the case of recent days- into the early morning.

Coffee and tea in abundance had become a tool to facilitate the operation and normalization of a reeling Government.

Caffeine for all of its abilities to stave off the physical weariness that was companion to long hours of stress still did little to recover the mortal powers of comprehension- at most providing only a temporary boost.

-And comprehension was the state all in the salon were working to attain at the moment.

"The logical contradictions of this information strains its credibility, Exedore-.", Valterven said without rebuke to the ancient alien whose report was still silently being considered by select members of the ministries present, "-Can we be certain that it is not somehow an anomaly that has been happened across coincidentally?"

Impervious to or simply unaware of the possible questioning of the validity of his summation of data, Exedore replied quite unflustered, "We are quite certain of the information, Mr. President. Reports, now numbering over thirty, from every region of Earth subject to the Te'Dak Tohl invasion are reporting the same result to basic genetic analysis of slain enemy combatants- unaware and independent of each other. Autopsies performed on Te'Dak Tohl casualties have uniformly identified a common deficiency. Unlike Zentraedi of the breed we are familiar with, the Te'Dak Tohl appear to be incapable of independently producing the proteins that compose the myelin sheathing of neural fibers-."

" _Adrenoleukodystrophy?_ ", interjected Minister of Health, Dr. Berta Geisbert, "You're saying that the enemy as a whole suffers from a protein synthesis disorder?"

Unaffected by the interruption, Exedore replied, "Not as a _whole_ , Madam Minister-. The enemy force seems to be composed of both the standard breed of Zentraedi, as well as this peculiar genetic tangent we are discovering now."

President Valterven reasserted himself as the critical consumer of information, changing the course of the developing conversation slightly to his own interests.

"Exedore, that statement is contrary to what we know about the Zentraedi. You are an excellent example of the great effort demonstrated by The Robotech Masters to engineer genetic infirmities out of the population for the purpose of longevity. Sadly, the effort was made to ensure a flawless baseline of health in a slave population that served The Masters' ends, but the result all the same was the manufacture of creatures of perfect and enduring health- as it applies to genetic disorders at least."

"It is contrary to what we have known about my Zentraedi people _up to this time._ ", Exedore corrected without condescension, "You are correct that The Robotech Masters designed the predominant breed of Zentraedi to be unhindered at the time of entry into their service of chronic ailments, leaving military action to be the great force of attrition. Moral implications aside, it is a logical attribute to the biological component of the system set up by The Robotech Masters to serve them."

"-And by extension of that argument, Exedore, you are saying that the genetic _imperfection_ of the Te'Dak Tohl similarly was intended to serve The Masters?", Valterven extrapolated.

"Their intentional deficiency can be interpreted no other way. The cloning process is rigorous with its checks and screenings at all stages of clone development.", Exedore explained, "A flaw of this magnitude would not be missed. –And if not missed, it must be inferred that it has been intentionally permitted."

Valterven's Senior Military Advisor, Hewitt stepped in within his capacity, saying, "That would seem to bear out to some extent, Mr. President. Kit recovered from Te'Dak Tohl casualties and examined by RDF and ASC personnel revealed that the aliens were in possession of injectable supplements to counter their condition and the means to self-administer it. –Only, there seems to be a catch. Analysis of the _treatment_ shows it to be flawed also. Over time in fact, constant use of the protein supplement shows that it would be as lethal as the condition it's supposed to be countering. _That's_ what I can't get my head around, sir."

Exedore was quick to agree, "Mr. Hewitt is absolutely correct, Mr. President. There is an inconsistency in logic at work in what we are seeing that I'm afraid I'm at a loss to explain. To create a breed of Zentraedi designed to expire without deliberate intervention; and then to provide that intervention, but provide it in such a way that the treatment is fatal within years in a way not dissimilar from the disease itself-. It is puzzling."

Breetai, having been privileged to Exedore's report prior to its briefing to Valterven and who had been silent through its delivery now found after contemplation a reason to speak on the matter.

"Exedore, my loyal, old friend and companion- the precision of your keen, scientific mind sometimes still clouds your vision. Analysis of physical evidence alone will lead to no conclusions here, I'm afraid. Perhaps revisiting interpretation of the enemy's motivations and some of our own assumptions are in order."

Valterven's Minister of Defense, Forsberg, and one of Breetai's few direct superiors had been curious about the former warlord's prolonged silence until now.

"Clearly you've thought on the matter, Breetai. Care to share where you are on the subject?"

Breetai paused briefly, running once more through the progression of complex thoughts that had led him to speaking before he finally gave those thoughts voice.

"The Te'Dak Tohl in the Zentraedi cultural tradition were creatures of lore- _phantoms_ and the shadowy personification of The Masters' control. They were the threat of severe punishment for disobedience or dereliction of duty. Their sudden manifestation, and the _conditioned_ reaction to them that I and others displayed initially seems to lend credence to our understanding of their function for The Masters."

"Let us assume then that indeed, the Te'Dak Tohl actually did serve as _overlords_ of sorts, or enforcers for The Masters… -Putting a consequence behind orders disobeyed or carried out ineffectively-."

CNO Admiral Coleridge added, "That fits with that signal they broadcast during their initial assault on Earth, transmitted across the bands that Zentraedi units would use for coded IS-coms. Of course it had no effect on our combat platforms, but when we ran it against legacy _Zentraedi_ systems, it triggered debilitating loss of function that appear to have been intentionally imbedded in the systems. A force reducer of that kind would certainly give a small force great advantage over a vastly larger one- say _overlords_ over the _subjugated_. -Iago is based on the same concept essentially, only slower in asserting itself. –It seems we're not the first to think of it."

"No-.", Breetai agreed, "The Robotech Masters have many shortcomings, but gaps in thoroughness where matters of control are concerned is not one of them."

"So, the Te'Dak Tohl were manufactured to control my breed in much the same way that we were made to assert control over whoever else The Masters wished to impose themselves. That leaves the tricky question of how do you control your overlords? -We seem to have our answer. You make them dependent upon you for their very survival."

President Valterven, though clearly weary as all around him were by the weight of their responsibilities seemed to rally in a discussion that was going the way of the academic and philosophical. It was a mental exercise that differed and was a relief from the burdens of decision-making, and a deserved momentary refuge.

"Then we have a viable explanation of the Te'Dak Tohl and their condition, but it does not account for why the treatment provided by The Robotech Masters should also kill their enforcers over time."

"Who said that the treatment killing the Te'Dak Tohl was provided to them by The Masters?", Breetai speculated but with an air of certainty that said he had mulled over repeatedly that which he was to say next, "Exedore can speak to this-. Even with our genetic refinement, Zentraedi Warriors of our breed still require basic prophylactic medical treatment and maintenance- especially when exposed to alien environments. This was provided through supplements added to our food and water supply quite unknown to us. The Masters, I suspect, would have addressed the need to constantly treat their enforcers for their designed genetic flaw in much the same way."

"That makes sense, and is both plausible and practical.", Minister of Health Geisbert affirmed, "An orally ingested supplement that metabolizes into the correct fatty acids is still the standard treatment for ALD- but that is not the delivery system that Exedore reported being found."

"Which challenges our assumption that the Te'Dak Tohl- _these_ Te'Dak Tohl at least", Breetai clarified, "are operating on behalf of The Robotech Masters."

President Valterven countered, "Yes, but during the initial attack and in her challenge to you personally, Breetai, Krymina spoke of you having to answer for treason to The Masters. That implies that she is still in their service, does it not?"

"Perhaps.", Breetai allowed, "Or perhaps not. Krymina certainly may have spoken falsely, retaining the draping of a servant of The Robotech Masters to suggest that their weight stood behind her. Perhaps she is in the service of a _faction_ of The Robotech Masters- the result of some great schism we are unaware of that is playing itself out and expanding into a second grab for Zor's technology in the interest of leverage. –There's no saying for certain."

"-What we can imply from the fact that their current treatment for their genetic condition deviates from what would be the simplest for The Masters to provide is that Krymina's Te'Dak Tohl may stand separate from the interests of The Robotech Masters, and that there seems to be another party in play. Zentraedi are intentionally denied by The Masters both the facilities and knowledge to identify and synthesize a medical treatment for themselves, so that expertise is coming from someone else. –Someone whose interests align with Krymina's, if not guiding them."

"-But that treatment is killing them slowly.", Valterven pointed out, "I doubt Krymina would be in league with an ally who was only slowing her demise."

"If she and her Te'Dak Tohl even know.", Breetai replied, "She aligns herself with this anonymous party, likely unaware that they do not intend for the Te'Dak Tohl to remain a long-term factor in their plans. I do not know what the math sums up to, but my intuition tells me that this war does not stem from the will of The Robotech Masters."

"Does it matter?", Minister of Defense Forsberg asked rhetorically, "No, it does not. It is wholly and materially irrelevant."

"Yes, it is.", Breetai agreed, "With the exception that Zentraedi forces still loyal to The Robotech Masters will not be at the call of Supreme General Krymina. –Perhaps, if the need were to arise, they would even be allies. That works to our advantage- _possibly_."

"As does time.", Forsberg stated with certainty, "Consider what Iago will do to their infrastructure and supply chain, to their mecha and vessels-. Consider what their genetic condition and this treatment that is actually the proverbial _wolf in sheep's clothing_ will do to _them_ in only a matter of a few to five years. This alters our strategy significantly. For the first time in human- no, _galactic_ \- history, a war might be won by actively doing _nothing_."

"No."

President Valterven's single word was as clear in resolution as it was short.

"I do not have the training or life experience in the mechanics of war that you, our military leaders, possess. I have at best a journeyman's understanding of military strategy- true. However, while I do not know the specifics of _how_ a war is prosecuted, I am well aware of when and why it must be prosecuted."

"War is not simply an exercise in tactics and the employment of technologies-. It is a _statement_ , an imposition of _will_."

"Supreme General Krymina and her Te'Dak Tohl, whether she stands for someone else or only for herself is making a statement that her will should govern ours. In the face of this, it is not sufficient to preserve our culture and ourselves through passive means."

"We may use the advantages shrewdly that Iago, and this unexpected genetic weakness of our enemy offer us,, but we _will_ fight for ourselves and for our culture. That will be _our_ statement."

 **Medellin, Columbia**

The lighting in the rear hallway of the domicile rose automatically to a level safe to walk by, but still muted for nighttime considerations as Darius emerged from his study to unexpected pounding at the door of the main entrance.

Passing the private salon that Philisto had chosen to enter some hours earlier for the practice of his nightly ritual of drinking wine to mild inebriation in seclusion. Darius was joined from the shadows by the second Tirolian who looked eager neither to join him on his investigation of the disturbance, nor remain alone in the darkness.

His voice as unsteady with drink and age as his gait, Philisto speculated with a hint of what may have been hope, "-They've gotten what they think they need from us and have come to kill us."

As Darius led the way into the main foyer of the home and brought the light up to full intensity with a motion of his hand, he elected to not say something as biting to his friend of many years as what was crossing his mind, but rather simply replied, "No-. Krymina has much need for us before she could think of doing away with us. –And those who come to kill you in the night _don't knock_ , you wine-saturated, old fool…"

Darius deactivated the safety locks on the door that would have provided resistance to energy weapons fire from mecha and motioned for it to be opened.

A breath of warm, humid air carried into the foyer as the door slid aside without a sound revealing a pair of micronized Zentraedi Warriors standing on the other side.

"Sub-Commander Fral requires your presence, Citizen Darius.", said the ranking sub-lieutenant of the pair of norghil warriors.

Fral, assigned command of a Te'Dak Tohl detachment by direct order of Supreme General Krymina had nonetheless drawn his personal guard detail from the ranks of warriors who had endured marooning on this world with him.

While there was no indication of a threat from the warriors of the enforcer caste, Darius recognized Fral's wisdom of ensuring that those with personal loyalties to him were about him in abundance should the _unexpected_ transpire.

Darius had no such loyal cadre, but hoped that for now his recent gestures to the scarred norghil officer would garner protection- should such a need arise.

"For what reason?", Darius asked, eliciting a disparaging expression from the sub-lieutenant.

"I was not informed, Citizen.", the warrior replied, "I was only told that you should be brought immediately."

Noting about the warriors caused Darius concern. Had they been dispatched, as Philisto had postulated, to dispatch the two Tirolians- they certainly could have already and with ease. Both carried blasters scaled like the body armor they were affixed to in holsters to the reduced size of the warriors. Both also carried the savage _kruvok_ bladed weapon in traditional scabbard. All were touches requested for Fral by Darius to their Te'Dak Tohl masters to provide elements of legitimacy and dignity to the warrior caste Zentraedi serving them in micronized form. Either weapon could have reduced the two aged Tirolians to smoldering or butchered heaps of twitching flesh had the bearers been of that intent. –Yet Darius and Philisto lived still.

It did not seem likely that they were being led off to slaughter.

"We require a moment to change from our house clothes.", Darius explained as he motioned the warriors inside, "Please come in before the creatures of this vile region make my home their own-. _I do despise insects…"_

Point Lieutenant Quen'Hoht surveyed with a slowly mounting contempt the rabble of micronians that was assembled before him.

The Te'Dak Tohl officer recognized that the root of his disdain for the fragile, passive aliens was not wholly a matter of their nature or even of their doing. Certainly in the three days since his _commander_ had given the order to sweep the region for micronians knowledgeable in the function and processes of the facility they had created for the growing and harvesting of The Invid Flower of Life there had been micronians who would not submit to capture. There had been the loss of two Regults, their pilots, and three dismounted Te'Dak Tohl Warriors to the inspired but ultimately amateur resistance of a handful of micronians armed with military grade weaponry, but for the most part the aliens were captured with minimal difficulty just as the norghil _advisors_ to the Te'Dak Tohl units had predicted.

It was not this exercise in tedium that caused Quen'Hoht to smolder right below the surface, but rather that stories of other Te'Dak Tohl units being engaged in battles worthy of their skill were beginning to seep through the channels of Warriors' talk to reach the ears of those denied that glory. Embellished as warriors' stories always were, they were still layered kernels of actions and events that Quen'Hoht and his composite regiment were being deprived of participating in for what was nothing more than the governance and care of plants.

Quen'Hoht was Te'Dak Tohl however, and bound to Duty and obedience first and above all other considerations. This he reminded himself along with the fact that it was _these plants_ that were at the center of the Te'Dak Tohl interest in this world. They were in fact the cause of generations of war with the Invid and other races, the cause of unknown billions of casualties, and intertwined in all of this was the very reason for the being of the Zentraedi race altogether.

In that context, immense responsibility had been placed in Quen'Hoht's hands. –Even if it did not carry with it the luster of battle-glory.

-But what could be said of a responsibility that was in the hands of Te'Dak Tohl subservient to a _norghil_ , and above him a soft, fat, decedent Tirolian?

It did not balance in sum in Quen'Hoht's mind- but again, he was Te'Dak Tohl and Duty and obedience were his prime considerations. Without these principles, it was easy to see how all other elements central to being could fall apart.

Still, as the micronians stood in shameful formation- squares of one hundred- whose columns and rows lacked all but the most rudimentary semblance of order- there was something contemptable about them to Quen'Hoht.

This made their reason for assembly all that more appealing to the Te'Dak Tohl officer, though combat it was not.

Years before, when only a small girl, gaunt with the hunger and poverty that was a constant epidemic in Columbia to those who did not sell their souls to the narcotics industry or peripheral trades accompanying it, Dr. Marcia Moreno's _abuela_ had told her that life was a winding path with many forks and though one could never be sure where the path led it demanded courage at every step.

Holding a PhD from Universidad Central de Venezuela in botany and a certificate of study in Xenobotany from the Academy of Robotech Sciences (a full PhD program of study in the field still being in development), Moreno was not certain whether this was the path that her grandmother had envisioned, but for a woman whose level of education had barely afforded her the ability to write her own name- her prophetic wisdom in the matter of requisite courage had been spot-on.

When her small but functionally comfortable apartment in Medellin had gone dark during the opening minutes of The Second Robotech War days earlier, Moreno had been every bit as terrified as every other soul on the planet, not benefitting in any way from her employment with the Ministry of Robotech Sciences in knowing either what to do or what to expect. It was courage, _valor_ \- as Moreno heard it in her head spoken in the near-toothless, raspy voice of her abuela- that had her in her beaten, old Jeep and on her way to "The Farm" as other elements of Medellin society were well into that peculiar, opportunistic endeavor of looting. A loaded and safetied pistol was both a small reassurance and a discomfort pressed between her right buttock and the Jeep's seatback. Her vehicle, upgraded courtesy of her employer to an "EMP hardened" state had been one of the few still running as was clear by the maze of abandoned personal and commercial vehicles that Moreno had navigated for a short distance to leave the city limits. Where the owners of the derelict vehicles had gone was uncertain, but through the focus of negotiating the vehicular obstacle course, Moreno had been forced to assure herself that if she had to that discharging her pistol at a human being would be fundamentally no different than target practice at the firing range.

 _Mierta_ , certainly, but _mierta_ that she had repeated to herself over and over in hopes that it would take.

Moreno had not been forced to discharge her firearm, or even to take it into hand. Looting all around had not yet evolved into the escape-oriented practice of carjacking. The people she saw in leaving the city showing mostly the menace of a deer spooked by headlights while crossing a road, and like deer they fled in the same panic.

The Farm, which Moreno had hoped would be a frenzy of activity and meaningful direction had been at best disappointing upon her arrival. Other like-minded personnel, equal parts Ministry employees and contractual laborers from the local population were gathering outside of the administrative building shocked and in in hope of a plan of action from anyone in authority.

Dr. Rojas, normally a constant fixture at the facility of which he was in charge and easily identifiable by his flowing white hair and cascading beard was nowhere to be seen, nor did he appear at any time during that long night- or since.

The closest semblance of order and direction had come from Lieutenant Colonel Daniels, the RDF-Army chief of facilities security whose sure-handed and warm manner as always experienced by Moreno had been conspicuously absent that night. As he had given the simple order to "burn everything, burn it all" not five paces from Moreno, he carried himself as a _futbol_ team coach burdened by the realization that he was with the team on the short end of a hopelessly unbalanced match.

He had not made eye contact with Moreno when normally he took pains to make conversation in a comfortably paternal way with her- and her last glimpse of him had been an hour or so before dawn organizing the departure of his command.

Agricultural equipment and vehicles, paper files, computer hard-drives, and even the well-maintained fields of The Flower of Life had been set ablaze during that night to varying degrees of success and beneath the ominous spectacle of savage battle in the heavens above.

Then, just before dawn, when all that could be readily and easily destroyed had been put to the torch, the organized effort ended and the caretakers of The Farm evaporated from what had been the center of their professional lives.

The thirty-six hours that had followed remained a blur to Moreno's memory- a disjointed sequence of fleeing from one place of supposed safety to another as any open space large enough to accept the touchdown of a Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pod did, and in doing so quickly choked the roads and flooded Medellin with giant alien invaders whose purpose at first had seemed only to be to slaughter civilians where they found them. As disturbing, though rationally Moreno could not explain to herself why, was the speed and ease at which a portion of the _indoctrinated_ population of Zentraedi who had joined the slowly recovering human civilization had turned on the indigenous population.

Moreno had seen a half dozen instances of indoctrinated Zentraedi waving down a column of invading mecha in motion to identify a home or building where humans were sheltering in numbers. Uniformly, the result had been the same and fatal for the occupants of the buildings whose destruction had been only a matter of the expenditure of particle beam bolts whose available quantity was limitless.

What Moreno could not account for were the numerous instances in which socialized Zentraedi in the act of betraying their adopted human culture for return to their own had performed some service for the invading forces only to be slain with the same zeal shown for dispatching humans.

Whatever it was, there was something that the indoctrinated Zentraedi seemed to know about the invaders- a subtlety unperceivable to the human population. For every one socialized Zentraedi who tried to align themselves with the invaders, there were twenty who fled in as much panic or more before them as the terrified human civilians.

Moreno had seen it in the eyes of an indoctrinated Zentraedi who had found his way into the same building basement as she and Ramirez as surely as Ramirez had- before he had put the distracted alien down with a single blow to the back of the skull with a section of steel pipe. The alien's terror had been so jarring that Moreno had not even raised a great protest when Ramirez had finished the gristly task on the unconscious Zentraedi with the same pipe and the weak explanation that the alien was a risk not worth taking.

Yes, Juaquin Ramirez- the senior supervisor of laborers on The Farm whose experience in such areas was known to be from comparable agricultural enterprises of a less legitimate nature in the times before the Earth had known of Robotechnology or Zentraedi- had been a welcome companion from the time that they had fled The Farm. –A welcome companion until he and his steel pipe had become cause for Moreno to wipe the spattering of blue-green blood and particles of brain matter away from her face with the soiled sleeve of her khaki shirt.

After that time, he had been what she had readily accepted to be a necessity for survival as he had developed a keen sense over the course of a lifetime immersed in potential and actual violence to understand harmless people from threats, and safe situations from perilous ones.

Less than twelve hours before, when a Zentraedi patrol with micronized guards in human clothing had happened upon Moreno, Ramirez, and a dozen others hiding in the partially collapsed garage of an automotive service station Moreno was certain that Ramirez would elect to not be taken alive. Quite to the contrary, he had been amongst the first to surrender himself passively at the order of the micronized Zentraedi guides.

Perhaps he had seen too many buildings and their sheltering human occupants reduced to burning rubble to think that surrendering carried longer odds against survival than resisting further. Perhaps like Moreno, he had finally reached the point where he was physically and mentally spent and only hoping that if the end was to come that the pilots of the Battle Pods were good shots and serious in the task.

They had not perished, so for unknown reasons the decision to resign to capture had been the right one at that time.

Now, back at The Farm, it was at least clearer as to why the Zentraedi patrol had captured and not obliterated them. They had been returned to an interned company of over a thousand- a measurable number of whom Moreno and Ramirez recognized from the paid workforce of The Ministry of Robotech Sciences.

Some of those MRS employees were _indoctrinated_ Zentraedi whose indoctrination events were proving had not taken as firm a hold as other Ministry employees would have liked.

Quickly, these had been effective in identifying for the invaders all who had any affiliation with The Farm, and familiarity with its running.

It was clear that they were employees of The Farm again, and with the multitude of "unskilled" workers interred with them to boot- it was obvious that they were to be of the _unpaid_ variety.

The true meaning of slavery had still not gotten its teeth into Moreno's fatigue-dulled brain, but the question of why the workforce had been forced from the four warehouses that served as minimalistic approximations of dormitories had found firm purchase.

While the answer was not apparent, there was an aura that hung over the captives and captors alike that told Moreno that her strong sense of foreboding was well-justified.

"What do you think?", Moreno whispered while making an effort to keep her lips from moving as though even the closest of the Zentraedi guards towering over the company of workers some thirty meters away was watching for such indications of communication.

Ramirez, standing before her like the trunk of a great tree planted especially to provide her some measure of concealment replied, "Don't know, but it doesn't feel good to me."

"Seems a waste of time to gather us all up only to kill us- you know?"

Ramirez grunted, "We need to learn what makes sense to these bastards before we can start to figure on what doesn't."

Moreno let the conversation drop, partially because Ramirez had a valid point not worth contesting. Also, there had been more than a thousand potential slaves collected and brought to this place by patrols- the effort apparently concluding only hours before. Quick physical inspection had determined which of the captured had sustained wounds or injuries during the process of capture that would have prevented them from being a viable worker. After those souls had been separated and hastened away, a further reduction of the lesser specimens of robust health had brought the numbers down to what was currently assembled.

While Moreno knew that she was right in that it made no sense to gather a slave workforce only to slay it, she was also feeling what Ramirez had said plainly. There was no telling yet what was rational behavior to these aliens. Perhaps collecting a thousand people to press into slavery, and then mow them down like so much grass for reasons unfamiliar to humans was exactly what made sense to these invaders.

Moreno was more certain than ever- something unfortunate was building to a head.

Standing as one of an unarmed thousand before the detachment of full-sized Zentraedi Warriors, Zentraedi mecha, and a sizable body of "indoctrinated" Zentraedi turncoats still in a micronized state- the possible forms of the _unfortunate_ were things beyond Moreno's control and ones that she preferred to keep out of mind. For this reason she was grateful for the distraction that she had first discovered upon being returned to The Farm following her capture with Ramirez.

Monitoring the "processing" and division of the captives into categories of specialized skill or general labor facilitated by the _formerly indoctrinated_ micronized Zentraedi whose functional grasp of Spanish, English, and even Portuguese- there had been a new and distinct presence.

Moreno had gotten a glimpse of them as she had been ushered to the front of the processing line where a micronized Zentraedi still in laborer's coveralls whom she had no clear memory of but who apparently recognized her identified the botanist as critical staff to two aged men-. They were of human size but not human, and certainly not micronized Zentraedi either.

Their garb alone set them apart, being ornate layers of flowing robes that could have been mistaken for the popular human notion of typical Roman dress. Closer inspection, as Moreno was able to make from only a few paces' distance revealed however patterns and symbols in the fabric that distinguished their style from anything of ancient or contemporary Earth.

When they spoke to a select set of the micronized Zentraedi officers, it was unmistakably in the tongue of the aliens that Moreno had become acquainted with in her time spent with Zentraedi. In her brief exposure to the two, she had also heard a brief exchange between them that was _similar_ to Zentraedi, but less jagged about the spoken edges. –A different dialect of the same root language.

In the span of fifteen seconds, Moreno had formed the opinion that she was amongst the first human beings to lay eyes upon Robotech Masters- though there was no comfort in the probability of her supposition. Based on what little she knew of the feudal relationship that was supposed to exist between the dominant aliens and their genetically engineered servants- the presence of both in such proximity and under present circumstances did not sum up logically.

-And here they were again, the two _Robotech Masters_ in the company of the same micronized Zentraedi officers.

Moreno could not make sense of their purpose for being there for all her trying, but it was a preferable mental exercise to attempting to guess the purpose of the late night assembly that had been called without warning.

Darius reached the top of the small rise from which Sub-Commander Fral already surveyed the assembled _interned_ labor force. The walk from his domicile concluding with the ascent up the slight incline left him winded as he had never been a creature of great physical exertion. The effect it had on Philisto was less pronounce by difference as he always appeared to be clinging tenuously to mortality in Darius's estimation anyway.

"Fral", Darius said perturbed on the exhale of a deeply drawn breath, "-Tell me that we are not here because you needed to show us that you finally taught them to stand in tidy formation."

Fral shook his head as though only distantly aware of the conversation being initiated and replied in a sober tone, "No, I have received orders to carry out- but before I did I wanted you to know so it was not me that you thought had gone mad."

Looking the part of one concerned with the welfare of others only as an extension of self-preservation, Philisto asked with widening and speculative eyes, " _What order?_ "

Disgusted at effort expended in waste, Fral replied in a huff, "I'm to _decimate_ the micronians we've captured. One in ten are to be-."

" _I know what decimate means!_ ", Darius snarled, his temper instantly aroused, "What fool gave that order so I can have a name to pin it to when I contest it with Krymina?!.."

" _Supreme General Krymina gave the order._ ", Fral replied with barely a breath's pause between the question and response as he had anticipated it.

" _What?_ ", Darius stammered, embarrassed as he spoke by the fact that his own tone betrayed the utter shock he felt to the Zentraedi sub-commander, " _For what reason_?"

Clearly understanding Darius's puzzlement, Fral answered with as much a hint of sympathy as could be afforded to the moment without sounding contrary to the will and whim of his superior officer, "We were not told, Darius, nor is it our place to know-. It just came through as a general order to all operational commanders. We are to immediately decimate the ranks of the micronians within our reach and influence-. This order applies to me without question and to these micronians as a result-."

Quen'Hoht, standing nearby was taking notice of the dispute between the Tirolian and the warrior caste Zentraedi, though he tried to mask his interest in the exchange. This was not lost on Fral who had been keenly aware of the attention given by his unlikely subordinate to his conduct as a commanding officer. Fral had come to feel measured by the point lieutenant in the speed and effectiveness with which he performed his duties and carried out the orders received.

Fral had no illusions of there being anything benign about the practice.

"Don't develop some moral conscience now, Darius.", Fral admonished quietly but genuinely. The synthesized opiates that Darius had provided him with which to manage his acquired dependency were thinning in his blood as could be seen by the growing twitch and tremble in the Zentraedi's face and hands.

"You seemed perfectly willing to crush the whole micronian species into the dust so long as the boots doing the trampling were Zentraedi. All that's changed is that you get some blood on your own hands."

Darius's reply was equally vicious and cold, "I am _swimming in blood_ already, Fral-make no mistake. So I have no qualms with the deaths of a hundred of these creatures- in the long term they're only ahead of the curve. The difference is that _right now_ , we _need these_. –Krymina is breaking the very instruments we need to make this campaign worthwhile…."

Darius withdrew for a moment from the exchange- calculating. There was no point in arguing against the order with a Zentraedi- one would have as much success arguing with gravity. Darius focused on ensuring that the hundred lost would have the most minimal impact on his vision of the future.

"-Fral, you know we _did_ lose over a hundred micronians in the work of gathering these- and that does not include the ones euthanized for injuries sustained in the process. We could consider those-."

"No.", Fral said dismissing the suggestion in development outright. Quen'Hoht was watching, and no doubt waiting to see how the general order was translated into action. "The general order is clear in intent, if not specific in detail."

"Then there's no persuading you into some _discretionary latitude_ I take it, Fral?"

"You could persuade me with time and your incessant nagging, I am certain.", Fral said, feeling himself on the cusp of being drawn into one of the pointless academic arguments that he was finding Darius relished, "-But when Quen'Hoht uses the opportunity to report me and succeed me as commander of the Zentraedi detachment, ask yourself if you will get latitude from him on _anything_?.. Sacrifice the battle, my Tirolian friend, to ensure victory in the campaign."

Darius relented as though his collusion was a factor, "Then if it should need to be done it should be done quickly and discretely. The _general order_ allow us to be _discrete_ , yes?"

"It was not specific in details.", Fral affirmed indirectly, "- _This time_."

Fral's final two words gave substance to Darius's uneasiness- a disquieting suspicion of things to come.

Something bad _was_ building to a head and nothing in Moreno's creativity was convincing her otherwise.

Since the labor force had been roused from their warehouse/barracks accommodations and ordered to assemble in century blocks like Roman legions of old- there had not been a mangled or misused word of either Spanish or English spoken by the micronized guards.

What had happened following the conversation between the ranking Zentraedi officer and the robe-clad "Masters" had been that micronized guards had begun moving through the columns of the interned and "randomly" removing an individual from each.

The effort was outwardly indiscriminant when not subjected to scrutiny at least.

Moreno, as the second selection process she had been subjected to approached through the columns to her left, was applying scrutiny to the commonalities of the selectees. Those hardened by and made leathery with labor in the elements showed themselves to be the majority of the chosen. Few sets of soft hands were added to the company pulled from the columns spurring a moment's hope in Moreno that some special labor detail had been called for and was being improvised.

Blank expressions matching those of the selectors were worn by the selectees as they were led to assemble in line before the ranks of those with whom they'd just shared company.

Like gear wheels in a machine working cooperatively, guards and the interned each participated in their roles to build the line of the chosen over whom an irrefutable aura of finality was growing.

There was no pleading or crying, from the selectee, whether it was a matter of pride, fortitude, denial, or some combination of these- and for this Moreno was grateful as a pair of micronized warriors were moving through her columns on a direct path toward her. She had always been sensitive to the mood of others and a hint of panic in those being taken might have been enough to push her over the edge on which she was already teetering.

A massive, pale green hand- the fingernails jagged and dirty underneath with lack of care- fell heavily on Ramirez's shoulder. A large man by human standards, Ramirez seemed slight and insubstantial to Moreno standing between the two micronized Zentraedi- but only in the physical aspects. He had not flinched or shown any indication of shying away from his selection.

Stepping out of line before Moreno, Ramirez's head turned slightly so he could speak to her back over his shoulder. His face was stoic and stern and his eyes ablaze with defiance that could find no other outlet.

" _Remember_ what they've done to us-."

Without conscious intent, Moreno found herself moving up to close the gap in her column, grateful not to be among the nearly complete line of _them._

The gratitude faded quickly and was replaced by a nauseating, loathing of self that the distinction should be drawn so quickly between those on the line and those fortunate to remain in the reduced columns of _us_.

 **Brasilia**

"Echo Actual, Echo Three Alpha – _Second Base…_ "

Lt Whilite dropped to a knee beside a Zentraedi transport container that was comparable in size to a truck trailer, but whose handles showed it was intended for toting- likely by a pair of the giant aliens who had made the international airport their base of operations. The fact that the container and others like it stacked neatly to varying levels in parallel to the airport's own maintenance and storage buildings were the _enemy's_ provisions and supplies gave an edge of danger to the mystery Whilite already felt for them.

Whimsical as it was, there was a sort of novelty felt by the lieutenant for the crates that had probably been pre-packed in a Zentraedi approximation of a s supply depot some thousands of light-years away. They garnered the same curiosity as Whilite had felt for his maternal grandfather's collection of pre-Unification national currencies growing up. They were things from a distant place- common, but at the same time having interesting stories involving them to be told.

-A shame…

As Staff Sergeant Byerly and PFC Diaz fell in near him, covering with their rifles the other fire teams of 3rd Platoon further back in the movement, Whilite was reminded that fulfillment of his mission meant that the crates, their contents, and the any stories of interest about them would be rendered ruined and useless soon.

Sentries, as Echo Company's sniper team had observed and had predicted for this night's "creep", were scarce. Instead, the enemy had placed his faith in guard posts and patrols along the civilian avenues of transit-. Clearly the aliens were more concerned about the movement of mecha or vehicles against their position than some form of foot-mounted assault.

It was a lack of vision that was going to cost the Zentraedi dearly this night.

720 meters northwest, eyes were on 3rd Platoon as the fire team on point reached their objective.

Corporal Fuller scanned the bounding movement of the platoon through the riflescope of the M-163R rifle and its integrated image enhancement features. Fuller, as most snipers did, had manually balanced the blend of IR and light intensification that was displayed through the eyepiece. Accounting for the varying levels of ambient light and heat over the span of the entire area that he was charged to watch over could have been done automatically by the scope- but real or not, Fuller felt he was better at these systemic tweaks.

Sergeant Harris, the senior rifleman of the team and spotter was of great assistance- sharing in the constant effort to maintain situational awareness for Echo Company, seeing from afar where they could not. His tripod-mounted spotter's scope had all of the features of Fuller's riflescope, and some additional ones that it did not.

Between the two men, Echo Company had eyes on everything in their surroundings, with the added benefit of Fuller's rail-accelerated anti-material rifle acting for them to boot.

Harris had seen Captain Nguyen, imbedded with 1st Platoon, arrive at their objective under a minute before. Like clockwork, the company's units were falling into place almost to the second as Nguyen had laid out in his plan some hours earlier. Whilite's report, made at a whisper over the coded tactical frequency was one of the last pieces needing to be staged.

"Three Alpha, Actual- copy that.", Nguyen replied before issuing the "go" phrase that the operation hinged upon, " _Batter Up. –Clock is running, we're ghosts in five mikes._ "

Nested on the rooftop concrete casement that housed the various HVAC equipment that had once kept the occupants of _The Embassy of Who-Knows-Where_ comfortable, Corporal Fuller had excellent vantage with the powerful M-163R rifle system over the breadth of the operational objective area.

Fire teams that had worked to cover one another on the swift yet guarded advance through the open grounds of the enemy-appropriated international airport were now abandoning their larger unit affiliations to place the charges provided to them by Echo Company's resident sapper, Corporal Van Dorn.

From Fuller's nest, the placing of the charges could have been (if approached with a musing mindset) mistaken for the inverse of a children's Easter egg hunt, or something like it. Quickly, and with only the selectiveness that the elapsing operational clock allowed, the Rangers were concealing their saboteur's packages within the natural spaces between stacked, alien cargo containers of unknown supplies or affixing them to neatly arranged pieces of field equipment whose specific purposes was not readily clear from outward appearances.

It was only that Fuller knew the mass-sabotage to be going on and the areas in which it was being carried out that allowed him to pick out the Rangers for whom he was covering from much of their environment.

Per Captain Nguyen's orders for this operation, the company with the exception of only Fuller and Harris had donned their body armor in its full, Level 4 configuration. Similar in notion to how the Chameleon camouflage system allowed the wearer of the EBAS "Stalker" body armor to blend into the surrounding landscape features by customizing the outer skin of electro-chromatographic cells to show environmentally appropriate patterns and colors- so too did the armor suit regulate the temperature of the suit's exterior.

When functioning properly and within operational limitations, the armor suit and its occupant had an IR signature that varied from ambient temperature by a few mere degrees and rendered them nearly invisible to thermal detection. Under this mode of operation, Fuller's trained eye was normally able to pick out and track the other Rangers while on the move. Given the right conditions, even he had been known to lose members of the flock he watchdogged for in their surroundings- a disquieting feeling for the "all-seeing eye" of the company especially as it peered over a weapon expected to throw rounds downrange in the company's direction for their defense. How often Fuller had lost track of one of his own in the bush was something he opted to keep to himself as the thought would do nothing in the way of bringing the guarded the sense of security that sniper overwatch was intended to provide.

Tonight though, the conditions were such that tracking the Rangers was a relatively straightforward task- for a trained eye.

Fuller traversed his field of view smoothly east, sweeping his gaze through the enhanced optics of his riflescope over the Rangers and their surroundings until he reached the forward-most team from 3rd Platoon. An anonymous member of that fire team stood out conspicuously from the backdrop of the crouched Regult he was standing beside as he spun one of Van Dorn's explosive parcels in a quickening loop at the end of the rope to which it was attached before releasing it into a perfect arc over the edge of the mecha's open hatch frame and into the war machine's cockpit.

The sniper witnessed no ostentatious displays from the figure who had just sunk the explosive charge into the Battle Pod like a deadly three-pointer catching nothing but net. There was no reason that Fuller had expected to see any showboating with the exception of the sight having reminded him of something seen normally in a game of "The Final Four" – and that the average age of the Rangers he watched over put them at that point in life where showiness was commonplace.

-But young as they were, there was no question that Fuller's Rangers were consummate professional soldiers, and keenly aware of the seriousness of their task and the real danger they were wading through to perform it.

Bragging about a perfect hook shot from the top of the key would come later no doubt.

3rd Platoon's fire teams placed their charges conservatively as they continued to migrate east along the enemy's neatly arranged stockpiles, likely seeking to distribute the destruction they would render as broadly through the supplies as they could. A sound strategy, Fuller admitted, when one was unsure as to what exactly one would be destroying with each IED. –But the thought process had clearly not taken into account the fact that as the Rangers spread themselves out along the deposited supplies, they were increasing the area that their overwatch was obligated to survey.

It was not impossible for Fuller and Harris at this point, only _challenging_. –Though as the Rangers continued to migrate east, depositing their charges as they went, Fuller did feel the need to swing the muzzle of the anti-material rifle to the area some 350 meters farther where the first Zentraedi garrison encampments were bivouacking.

There was no issue yet- but increased proximity was equal on a creep-op to increased danger.

" _Four minutes."_ , Captain Nguyen announced as 20% of the time allotted to plant the sapper's charges elapsed.

Corporal Fuller tracked his weapon west to the other extreme of Echo Company's expanding operational boundaries to find the same ongoing activities with different players.

Even on the ground, and "on objective" as the Rangers were, there were indications that they too were becoming conscious of spreading themselves thin beyond the point that could be justified by arguing the distribution of intended destruction. Their egress plan called for a collapse back to the western-most unit and to exfiltrate the OA along a path west scouted already by the sniper team. Exfiltrating by the same path used to enter the objective, and more to the point in the direction of _home_ was not the first option any of the Rangers wanted to take. –But venturing away from the rallying point for egress presented its problems too- especially as time was a factor in slipping the scene of the surprise attack.

As expanding the breadth of the sabotage was incurring greater risk, the common, unspoken solution reached was to move _deeper_ into the columns and rows of enemy stockpiles. A simple solution that increased unit effectiveness in meeting the mission's general objectives, but one that compounded the headache of overwatch.

Harris and Fuller had taken survey of the available positions that they could assume for overwatch and had applied as much thought as time had allowed in making their selection. –And indeed, the selection had been a good one providing the broadest view of the operational area possible without obstruction.

What not even the most ideal sniper's nest could provide was _depth_ of view beyond a given range and around physical obstructions

A mere twenty-five meters elevation from ground covering Rangers out at a range of over 700, Fuller quickly lost visual contact if the Rangers pressed more than a few meters into the columns of mecha and material that they were there to destroy. –And the Rangers were vanishing rapidly from sight in hopes of planting their last charges before making their escape.

Making a full sweep from the first stacks of supply containers that marked the western edge of the operational area to the eastern most point where hints of movement around squatting Regults marked 3rd Platoon's ongoing activities, Fuller and his M-163R being rendered impotent to protect.

-This being his responsibility though, it was that much more hair-raising for Fuller as his keen eye glimpsed a hint of the unexpected and the possibility of danger.

"- _Oh shit-._ ", Fuller muttered, instantly getting Harris's attention as he spotted two anthropomorphic forms glowing in "white hot" passing in the mecha-width gap between two dormant Regults.

"- _Bogeys- fifty meters east of Three…_ ", Fuller whispered to his spotter with no other details to report.

"Got `em.", Harris replied, having tracked in using his spotter's scope and Fuller's vague direction to zero in on the area of interest.

Fuller found the two, heat-radiating silhouettes emerging from the far side of the Regult that they were clearly attempting to use to cover their movements- and a moment's observation revealed two to actually be _three._

The figures maintained a stooped posture with indications of rifles at the ready as they moved west just inside of the first row of Regults. Their spacing and clear efforts to conceal themselves in the shadows spoke to Fuller of formal military training and practice in small unit tactics – but there was no telling affiliation from any of these observations.

There was only the certainty that in under a minute, surprise contact was likely with 3rd Platoon if there was no intervention.

Whilite could speak for neither his subordinates, nor his fellow officers in Echo Company, but for his own part there was something about a "creep" operation that put his nerves on end more than any other type.

Certainly the strong-arm nature of urban warfare that had been the Rangers' day-to-day life in Brasilia only a week before had its unique and intense stresses- the rapid-fire, situational chaos that could never be offset by even the best of planning or exercise.

Ambushes- even when laid and executed perfectly always carried with them the underlying peril that was the same as the trapping and wounding of a wild animal- that in its fear and pain was ten-fold as dangerous in its lashing out.

Even the explosive energy of random, intense contact on patrol that was in its mildest form a tempest of panic and trained aggression held no comparison with the icy grip of suspense that "creep ops" held on Whilite's spine.

3rd Platoon- _all_ of Echo Company actually were engaged in the plan that Captain Nguyen had laid out hours before now, and Whilite was feeling that old, electrical giddiness of unseen but omnipresent danger.

The sensation was no stranger to him, he having felt it even before he had been of military age and had earned his Ranger patch. It was in fact the same nervous energy that he had felt as a boy playing hide-and-go-seek before the world had known of Zentraedi or intergalactic war.

The parallels were there and shocking. Here now amongst the idle Battle Pods, he and his platoon moved around with their situational awareness shrunk to a radius of meters- knowing all the time that the threat of _"it"_ was out there.- either stalking them or open to the possibility of the chance crossing of paths.

The business was more serious now of course, and the consequences of discovery by " _it_ " more severe by orders of magnitude- but creep-ops and hide-and-go-seek were fundamentally the same.

-And damn it if that didn't include that both aroused in Whilite the distant and nagging urge to pee…

"Three Alpha, Dugout-. Halt and cover- bogeys east of your position, forty meters- moving at you head-on.", Sergeant Harris reported calmly but urgently over the common tactical frequency.

His platoon, spread around visual obstructions beyond the ability to effectively communicate by hand signal, Whilite ordered quietly via the same tactical frequency-.

" _-Third Platoon, all sticks- cover and prepare for contact east. Give me a thirty meter, firing line spread, left flank on me. Watch the right, I don't want anyone slipping around on an end-run."_

Whilite saw the other half of Byerly's 1st Squad vanish into and around the contours of the foot of the Regult crouching in the second row of neatly arranged mecha, opposite to the one serving as cover to the lieutenant.

PFC Diaz was prone beneath the ostrich-like, rearward bending leg of the same Battle Pod that Whilite and Byerly covered behind, his body flush with the mecha's left heel as the platoon's CO and senior NCO surveyed the reported direction of danger's approach from the ample protection of the mecha's knee joint. All three, undoubtedly like the rest of 3rd Platoon, searched the open spaces between rows of mecha for signs of the bogeys reported by Harris.

The wait was not long.

"- _There-._ ", Byerly said initially, as though the single word would provide location of what she was seeing, " _Next row, about forty meters up-."_

"White hot" images as seen through his riflescope were not providing Corporal Fuller with any details he could use to identify the forms moving steadily toward 3rd Platoon, who had now spread themselves into a firing line ready to engage.

"Little Blue Guys, you think?", the sniper asked, tapping the side of theM-163R's trigger- a habit he'd developed that was not quite putting his finger on it, but getting the reassurance that it was there if needed.

"Too small for LBGs, I think.", Harris replied, "-But I'm going to need better eyes on before-. .. _Oh shit- more of `em… Track east-."_

Following the spotter's cue, Fuller swept further east to see indications of more movement by multiple bogeys trailing the first in an elongated and segmented column.

"- _Aw shit._ ", Fuller repeated, mimicking the sentiment of his superior as potential targets slipped in and out of sight in the gaps between Regults.

"-Keep your eyes on their point.", Harris directed, "Hold your fire, _unless_ -. Let me get the damn Tink in for a better view-."

Captain Nguyen's voice, sounding edgy for lack of any details as to what was developing at 3rd Platoon's position, said, " _Three minutes. –Three Alpha, SitRep?_ "

" _Eyes on bogeys, Actual._ ", Whilite reported, peering with the aid of integrated image enhancement at the humanoid forms glowing with heat through the quick sights of his rifle, " _Stand by. –All sticks, hold fire-._ "

IR imaging cost Whilite the ability to make out fine details of the leading form that he could have easily put rounds through from where he and Byerly were positioned- but nothing about them said _Zentraedi._ They were too small in frame and stature, unless they happened to all be micronized females. –And if the enemy, why probe their own secure area as they appeared to be doing? Suspicion of an enemy presence could usually be expected to cause a Zentraedi force to opt for the sledgehammer response.

These bogeys were not acting like Zentraedi- Whilite was growing more and more certain.

A further moment's observation confirmed it. A fire team of there on point of the movement would cover long enough to allow a trailing fire team to pass them and assume the next position- "leapfrogging" through the operational area and providing their own ground-level cover.

A flutter of motion in "white hot" at almost the same point up the same row of Regults that Byerly, PFC Diaz, and he was covering in caused Whilite to realize that the bogeys were actually _two_ columns travelling in _parallel_ and covering one another along the way and not just one.

This was not SOP for Zentraedi Warriors moving within their own lines, even if they were on the hunt for a known enemy presence. This was something _domestic._

" _Eighteen, nineteen-_.", Sergeant Harris counted aloud as he remote-piloted the RAV-6 "Tinkerbelle" past the line Echo Company's 3rd Platoon had formed spread out across the column depth of three rows of Battle Pods.

Three of the Frisbee-sized drones of carbon fiber that floated with only a whisper's noise on a current of air from its center-mounted, electric fan engine had already been en route to join Echo Company as the last of the Rangers reached the mission objective, but they were micro-aircraft designed for their stability and loiter characteristics- not for their speed in getting from point to point.

Once there however, and almost exactly on cue as to when Sgt. Harris was finding that he truly needed the micro-video surveillance package that each drone carried, the sniper team's spotter assumed control of the most proximal Tinkerbelle to 3rd Platoon. Using a control pad that any child ever exposed to a home game console would have found familiar and easy to use, the sergeant had quickly maneuvered the drone to see with its electronic eyes what his mortal ones could not from his position.

"I count twenty-one, Three Alpha-.", Harris reported- seeing what the Tinkerbelle saw via a pair of viewing goggles linked to the RAV-6's control paddle.

"- _And they're ASC to boot…_ "

Whilite took his finger off of his M-35's trigger at the identification of the "bogeys", resting it instead on the outside of the guard from where the trigger was still quickly accessible.

Friction and even animosity being what it was between The Army of The Southern Cross and the Robotech Defense Forces, the unit plowing headlong toward 3rd Platoon was still human, and still friendlier than the owners of the sandbox that they and the Rangers were playing in. –But ASC infantry units- especially those who had been in the bush for extended periods- had the reputation of going "cowboy" at the drop of a hat, and Whilite's preference was still that any _friendly fire casualties_ be the ASC's people and not his.

Still-.

"Third Platoon, everyone maintain _weapons hold_.", Whilite ordered as he safetied his rifle and grappled with the balance of necessity and stupidity for what he was about to do.

"-If they shoot me, Byerly- you'll give them a second chance and try to make nice…"

" _What-?_ ", Byerly replied, understanding her lieutenants intent only as he acted.

Whilite took his rifle by the forward barrel-jacket and extended it at an arm's length well out into the open, waving it up and down like the rigid approximation of a flag.

The advancing parallel columns of ASC troops froze with a sudden uniformity, all having seen the revealing display of 3rd Platoon's lieutenant.

" _Rangers!_ ", Whilite called by way of introduction, "I'm stepping out- _don't shoot me, damnit!.._ "

With his rifle still at an arm's length, Whilite edged into the open with his left arm raised and palm of the hand out and open. There were no flashes of rifle fire, nor the searing pain of bullets or lasers slicing through flesh.

-But it occurred to Whilite at that moment also that he had not actually thought ahead to what would come next….

" _Mountain Recon_ ", came the reply from across the expanse between rows of Regults and somewhere in the leading cluster of ASC troops, "-Move up, and I'll meet you on your side!"

Whilite tapped Byerly on the helmet, "You too- _let's go_."

" _Sure, El-Tee.._ ", Byerly grumbled with obligatory circumstantial resentment, "- _Why not get us both shot?.._ "

Whilite was holding his rifle again as its designers had intended as he led Byerly on the crouched sprint to meet his anonymous, presumed counterpart who was dashing across the open with another figure and a common air of urgency. The two halves of the chance encounter met at the rear and under the thruster assembly of a Regult.

Strangely it occurred to Whilite that in his time in Brasilia- in "The Zone", really- he could not recall the last time he had spoken free-form to a member of the ASC. –And here they were now looking every bit "last gen tech" in their BDUs, rig, and gear as Whilite were "cutting edge" in the technology that the RDF-Army had layered them in.

Both of the ASC emissaries to this impromptu meeting were of roughly the same age as Whilite and Byerly, perhaps a little older, looking worn by recent events but still capable. There was something appropriate to their solid, unshaven appearances that seemed to make them a better fit for the world as it now was and promised to be for a while. They looked like part of the ASC that by deeds Whilite had witnessed in Brasilia could be counted upon to bring the pain to the enemy.

Whilite swung his helmet visor up, opting for eye contact in this situation. As he unfastened the air filtration mask covering his nose and the lower half of his face the night air came to his nostrils cool and damp, and smelled of forming dew on the grass. It also smelled strongly in contrast of the body odor of those who had been in the field for days without washing facilities- the "three week reek" as Whilite had learned to call it by RDF-Army lingo.

-He was sure that he and Byerly were equally sweet-smelling….

"Lieutenant Whilite, 4th Rangers, Echo Company", Whilite introduced himself, "This is my platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Byerly-. Who the hell are you guys?"

Whilite's announcement of rank and the close enough proximity to see the bar stenciled on his helmet and body armor prompted a salute from the two ASC troops.

"Sorry, sir-.", apologized the apparent senior of the two, holding his saluting as he said, "Staff Sergeant Alvarez and Sergeant Carol… -24th Mountain Recon Regiment."

"Are you senior in the unit?", Whilite asked, returning the salute and dispensing with formalities.

"Yes.", said Alvarez immediately and adding a moment later with the clear relief of having someone to report to the explanation, "We lost our lieutenant and three others in a skirmish with malcontent dittos as the shit was going down. We were manning an OP north and- well, I figure you can fill in the blanks, sir."

"Yeah, common story in these parts.", Whilite said, cutting the pleasantries short, "We're on a creep and on the clock-."

" _Two minutes._ ", Captain Nguyen announced, " _Whilite, are you going to tell me what's going on, or should I come up and find out for myself?!.. Over."_

Whilite called for a pause with the ASC NCSs by raising his left hand in a "hold" gesture to them, replying simultaneously to Nguyen, "Negative sir, I'm in _parley_ right now with the ASC, will have the full story for you in two secs. Over."

Dropping the pause in conversation between himself and Alvarez, Whilite asked the next, logical question, "-What's your mission here?"

Long shadows were cast in strobe effect from the east as a half dozen or more explosions sounded their sharp reports in machinegun succession. The piercing concussion of the last had hardly passed through the meeting of Gemini Coalition allies when a great secondary explosion from the same originating area rose skyward in an all-illuminating fireball whose blast hit not like javelin points but like an invisible, speeding truck.

" _Nevermind_ ….", Whilite muttered as he steadied himself under the softening glow of the rising fireball as it rose to a height of 100 meters and began to dissipate.

Portable light towers erected by the Zentraedi all around the airport grounds came to life, bathing the area in harsh, white light. From the garrison bivouac at the farthest point east, through the mecha and Fighter Pod marshalling areas, to the depots and stockpiles into which the Rangers and ASC unit had intruded- shadows melted away like snow touching warm ground.

As the blanket of darkness was snatched away, the garrison alarm sounded in short, shrieking yelps that penetrated the teeth to the nerve root.

The first Zentraedi Warriors were emerging from their personal enclosures, all struggling to pull on their uniforms and body armor as Naib Subedar Singh's Gurkhas initiated their attack from east, and outside of the secured perimeter. –The fact that the plan that had been briefed had gone wildly off-script had apparently not eluded them.

An understandably modest salvo of mini-missiles was illuminated as descending, meteoric flecks in the light cast by the Zentraedi towers as the weapons arced in on points all around the garrison encampment. There was the subdued _pop_ of bursting plasma-napalm warheads, followed swiftly by the shrieks of alien warriors in agony from burns caused by indirect exposure to the extreme heat.

The air above the Zentraedi garrison's encampment began rapidly to cloud with thickening grey smoke whose odor of sublimated synthetic materials and burning flesh pervaded and overwhelmed the pleasant scents of night.

" _ABOART, ABORT, ABORT!"_ , Captain Nguyen called over the tactical frequency, " _All platoons fall back to first rallying positon on the double-quick!.._ "

"- _Well_ , I don't know _your plan_ , but _we're goin' that way-._ ", Whilite said, cocking his head in a generally westward direction, "Try to keep up and we'll sort the fine points out later."

Alvarez was unreserved in his amenability, saying, as Whilite and Byerly ducked away on the ordered withdrawal "Sounds like a _great plan_."

Sub-Commander K'Rhel felt the cold chill of shock at having been awakened within a "secure area" by the sounds of attack reach its base and begin to rise into the heat of anger. Emerging from his personal sleeping enclosure proximal to the field depot's command post, the commanding officer was both in the process of donning his armor and trying to accurately assess the nature and degree of the attack his command was under.

Fires, presumably from _some_ of the explosions that had awaken him moments earlier danced in and around the idle reserves of mecha that was an insignificantly short walk from where he had been sleeping. The Intelligence Division's report that had assured K'Rhel and his subordinates that this operating area was devoid of any "meaningful or substantial micronian resistance" was proving to be woefully inaccurate, and the failure was now costing confidence and warriors' lives.

 _Other_ fires, clearly plasma-napalm fueled by the intensity with which they burned blazed at seemingly random points through his warriors' encampment just east of the officers' encampment and close enough to already be thickening the air with the disgraceful odors and smoke that taunted battle going against his unit's favor.

Within the encampments, the bulk of the warriors immediately unhindered by the attack were getting their feet under them now and into their gear for combat as rage began to take hold of them beneath the random and dwindling fall of mini-missiles. The four-Regult picket posted to patrol and watch the eastern perimeter could be seen just at the very edge of the camp's lighting- their lack of response to the threat coming from outside of the perimeter area they had been assigned to guard was explained by they all being felled by the same attackers.

Micronians of the _non-combatant castes_ \- the Te'Dak Tohl officer had been warned through briefings could be expected to be able to improvise weaponry of varying grades and to use them to a modest level of effectiveness. Had K'Rhel awoken only to find staged, reserve Combat Pods burning he might have been inclined to dismiss the action as being by inspired and Fate-favored non-combatant micronians.

 _This_ spoke of something else.

From their sentry positions along the northern perimeter, the squad of Regults on watch drew K'Rhel's attention as they initiated the garrison reply to the surprise attack- lashing out with a broad and sweeping fusillade of particle beam fire into woodlands east of the perimeter and their slain counterparts. Trees splintered and were tossed ablaze on columns of displaced earth above the canopy of those left standing as the savage counter-fire affected revenge on the landscape.

There was motion far to K'Rhel's right, outside of the encampments as the southern perimeter guard elected to leave their assigned area to join in the counterattack. Thoroughly shredded and blazing woodland and hillsides received an increase to the lashing that the northern guard was still administering.

Warriors qualified to operate mecha were now reaching them and bringing them hastily into action. A single Light Artillery Regult strode briskly by K'Rhel along avenues through encampment squares of sleeping enclosures intended for dismounted personnel. The Combat Pod's dual, top-mounted launchers swiveled slightly in unison, training on some distant target, and then filled the air with the sharp-smelling exhaust of missiles' rocket motors.

A moment later, beyond the northern and southern Regult guards who were now converging on the area, the eastern perimeter exploded in a rippling blanket of detonating plasma-napalm warheads that consumed with their incredible heat anything not already afire.

Sub-Commander K'Rhel looked quickly away from the lightening response of ineffectiveness, unable to bear the stupidity of the evolving action.

"Lord!...", Point Lieutenant Jarrot called to gain his commander's attention as he rushed to meet him, donning the last of his armor as he did so and pleasing K'Rhel with the comfort that he had not been the only warrior caught unprepared by the attack.

In reality, what was beginning around K'Rhel within his own command was almost as dangerous as the attack that had wakened his warriors from slumber. Warriors were rushing to fight before their sub-lieutenants could organize them and direct their aggression effectively. Like a body in the moments after its head was shot away, K'Rhel's garrison was a stumbling mass of whirling limbs gaining nothing by its exertions and even making itself _more vulnerable_ to attack through its lack of cohesive effort.

Chaos was in command at this moment, K'Rhel realized- not he.

"-Lord, the garrison will be mounted and deploying in minutes-.", Jarrot reported, almost boastfully.

"Deploying to _where_ , Jarrot?!..", K'Rhel asked impatiently, "Do you see micronian mecha to engage?..."

Jarrot protested, "But Lord, enemy fire was seen coming from the east-."

K'Rhel pointed to the fallen Regult sentries of the eastern perimeter, sanarling, " _They_ were killed as a _distraction_ by the micronians to the east to draw our attention away from _that!-_ "

Jarrot's gaze followed K'Rhel's arm as it flailed emphatically at the rising flames started by the explosions that had awaken all.

K'Rhel had not slipped an uneasy feeling that had started as he had tumbled out of his personal sleeping enclosure, and in stating his observation to Jarrot- he began to understand why. It was _familiarity_ he was feeling in the situation- familiarity with a minor norghil uprising that he had been party to quelling some years before.

As norghil, the back of their insurrection had been broken swiftly with the neutralization of their warship and mecha systems by activation of their "failure mode". Many norghil had already escaped to the surface of a nearby planet where they were determined to fight their final battle, and while an orbital bombardment of the entire region could have swiftly and definitively ended that disturbance to order- the Te'Dak Tohl commander elected a ground-level solution.

Mostly, as was to be expected, it had been a slaughter of the norghil whose infantry weapons and limited supplies had proven insubstantial in carrying the treasonous effort. There had been instances however…

There had been incidents of inspired action by the norghil- small Te'Dak Tohl units taken by surprise in areas deemed safe, or ambushed to moderate effect.

-And if norghil on an alien world, armed with rifles and sustained only by field rations could have such an effect, then micronians on familiar ground with a modicum of training and the right equipment might just be capable of what was now transpiring-.

The world shook again as first a set of paired explosions and then a random succession ripped through the depot's stockpile area from the reserve mecha marshalling area through the organized lots of various provisions. Thunderous blasts set the ground and air trembling as bits of fractured shipping cases and their contents were thrown into the night sky, followed by the almost immediate appearance of flame whose volume and rate of growth gave evidence of an accelerant.

"- _And that too!..._ ", K'Rhel stammered, gesturing wildly at the continuation of the display of enemy planning and organization, "-Any warrior capable of carrying a weapon or piloting a Regult at the ready _now_ and under the charge of their sub-lieutenants! I want units out to a distance of six atohls by the turn of the next hour, and want them conducting sweeps back _toward_ base. Pursuit is useless, they have planned their escape-. We need to snare them with our sweeping action if we're to catch them at all."

Jarrot, understanding the plan suddenly thrust upon him for execution replied dutifully with fist clanged over his heart in salute, "Yes, Lord- it will be done."

K'Rhel pointed next to the Gnerls situated near the end of the runway whose crews were moving toward them swiftly.

"-Those Fighter Pods are to be armed for ground-support actions and will receive their direction from-."

K'Rhel's order was left incomplete as his upper right cheek exploded in a speckling mist of blue-green blood and tissue whose force dislodged the eye above from its socket.

Jarrot froze with the collapse of K'Rhel's body and at the suddenness of his superior's inexplicable departure from life, as did the handful of warriors who had gathered either to report or to gain insight of their commander's plans.

A sub-lieutenant in their midst dropped next beneath a spray of blood and brain matter that carried through the hole in his head opened by the section of skull that had been blown outward.

"-And _that's_ why we wear our helmets in a combat zone, boys….", Sergeant Harris scolded with ghoulish mirth from a distance too great to possibly be heard by the admonished.

The spotter watched the group of Zentraedi recoil from a second comrade's fall before scattering in terror before death whose form was not clear to them.

A .50 caliber anti-material, armor-piercing explosive round had a way of making a lasting first impression on those who had never seen one delivered by a professional. –And when the round was used with remarkable effectiveness on a target for which it had not been principally intended- such as the head of an enemy giant…

-The effect was even more profound.

"Good shot.", Harris said to Fuller who was already scanning the area through the M-163R's scope for a target of opportunity.

"Good call on their honcho-.", Corporal Fuller replied, more focused on finding his next, unsuspecting mark at 2,200 meters distance over conversation.

"Officers are easy to spot, no matter what their species.", Harris admitted, diminishing the suggestion of great acquired skill, "-Just look for the guy doing the most talking."

 _ **SDF-3**_

The percussive pulse of the ship's general alarm had subsided but was replaced in the Combat Direction Center by the low but enveloping murmur of duty-related conversations between crew and supervisors all around the compartment. Stations and screens that had been dark and unoccupied during the period of fold transit were now manned and alive, giving the Flagship's nerve center a flash and energy at all points.

"Captain, all decks, all divisions report secure to Condition One, sir.", reported Chief of the Watch, Master Chief Petty Officer Vogel from her station at the central tactical display with the CO and the Flag, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter.

"Very good, Chief.", Captain Hollenkamp replied, "Fold-Ops, time remaining on profile execution?"

"Two minutes, twenty-three seconds, Captain.", came the reply, "Execution on the mark with profile, five-by-five. We'll thread the needle for you, Skipper."

"Very good, Fold-Ops. Adjust fold profile designs for second position jump or fallback as soon as Sensors has a fix for you.", Hollenkamp acknowledged before turning to the final two divisions on which activities would hinge- and soon, "Sensors, we'll need that position fix and a full spherical sweep- _passive_ \- as soon as we're clear of hyperspace. Call bogeys as you spot `em."

"Aye, sir."

"Fire Control- TAO, lock into sensor feeds on primary and secondary fire control systems. Release master safety and make all batteries, tubes, and launchers ready in all respects. Establish CCDS links with task force units and set to stand-by. There will be no friendlies out there when we arrive, so you have permission to fire upon request with exception of the main battery."

"Aye, sir- understood.", LCDR Connor affirmed, "Spinning up all weapons systems, and we have good Collaborative Combat Direction System links with all task force units."

Hollenkamp looked to his superior, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter and said encouragingly, "Admiral, _SDF-3_ is ready as we can make her, ma'am. As far out from Sol as we're de-folding though, chance of a proximal contact is easily less than a million to one."

Hayes-Hunter's demeanor since the sounding of general quarters had changed from her normal, generally-approachable persona to the more contained, earnest, and action-oriented officer that Hollenkamp knew her to become during combat operations. It was not an attempt to put off her subordinates, Hollenkamp knew- and he had never faulted her for this customary change. This was who she was and how she dealt with the innumerable thought processes and enormous weight of responsibility that came with her command.

"-That seems to be the theme of this war, Julian.", Hayes-Hunter replied as she looked over all that the ship's sensors could show her at this point- the formation and station-keeping of the task force under her command within _SDF-3_ 's "fold bubble".

"-Remind me in a few years when I'm working on my memoirs to fund my retirement that that'd be a good name for the book – _Remembering the One Chance in a Million War, by Lisa Hayes-Hunter_ …"

"I'd buy a copy-.", Hollenkamp said brightly, "Assuming I haven't beat you to the punch and written my own first."

Hayes-Hunter smirked grimly, "Treachery and conspiracy in the ranks-. That's another chapter in itself I think. –Just keep giving me material…"

"Conn, Fold-Ops. De-fold in thirty seconds."

Hayes-Hunter reached beneath the lip of the tactical display table and retrieved the telephone handset provided for her duty station in the CDC. Placing it to the side of her head, she said to MCPO Vogel, "1MC and patch me into the task force…"

"-You're on, Admiral.", Vogel said as the ship's speakers gave an announcement tone.

In her steady, commanding tone, Hayes-Hunter spoke.

"Doolittle Task Force, this is the Admiral. _Action this day._ Sure will be the command and swift the execution, and we _will_ bring the war to the enemy ad drop it right into Supreme General Krymina's lap. Do your jobs, trust your commanders and shipmates, and let's get on with the mission at hand. Out."

Without any additional ceremony, Hayes-Hunter returned the phone to the cradle and her attention to the tactical display- and like all other around her, waited.

"Final countdown to de-fold.", the Fold Operations Officer announced, "Real space in _ten, nine, eight, seven-."_

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

"-Nothing to add to that, Skipper?", LCDR Petersen asked smartly of CDR Devereaux from across the CIC's main tactical display.

"Some eloquence shouldn't be upstaged.", Devereaux replied before resuming her "game face".

A focused tension pervaded the CIC as all eyes were locked onto the displays of their duty stations and all minds spinning through the details of their responsibilities.

All the while, the ship's speakers carried the final countdown from _SDF-3_ 's Fold Operations.

"- _Six, five, four, three, two, one._ De-fold _._ "

"- _And the curtain goes up…._ ", Senior Tracker, Petty Officer First Class Thatcher said as the task force-s re-entry into "real space" was confirmed by the return of hash to his waterfall display.

"Let's hope for an empty house.", added PO1Orson Cobb from the Senior Tracker seat for his team of four.

Like the other two senior trackers, Reyes and Chun – Cobb and Thatcher's responsibilities were roughly two parts supervisory and administrative, and one part technical. Under the senior tracker's direction, the team of four junior trackers interpreted the cascading curtains of grainy light representing the energy passing through space, covering the span of the EM spectrum and as interpreted by the _Stratford_ Class Frigate's advanced sensor systems. Working with numerous analytical tools and vast libraries of recorded energy patterns of sources both hostile and benign- it was the trackers' job to sift possible threats to the ship out of the ambient clutter and was the senior trackers' task to affirm their teams' interpretations and pass usable information to the Senior Sensor Officer and to the CIC for dissemination and use.

The sensor tracker's MOS was one whose execution was as much intuition as rigorous training, and could be every bit as tedious as it was vitally important to the safety and combat effectiveness of the vessel. It was also a skill set related to one of the few advantages that the REF held over its venerable, space-going adversaries – and it was the center of the attention of every member of Task Force Doolittle at this particular moment.

This time, as the streams of light on-screen in the waterfall display's broadband mode showed, there was only the constant flow of energy from Sol, the lesser static crackle of the Oort Cloud, and the immediately recognizable pixilated signatures of the other ships in the task force.

"Quad Red, no contacts.", Thatcher reported over his intercom headset to the SSO as his trackers completed their first sweep and continued with routine, repetitive sweeps of the same quadrant of space around the ship from 270̊ to 000̊ relative.

"Quad Green, no contacts.", Cobb echoed, giving the call of clear space from 001̊ through 090̊.

So Reyes and Chun repeated as well for quadrants "blue" and "yellow" that each accounted for the last two arcs of 90-degrees around the horizontal axis of the ship.

It had never been confirmed _officially_ to Cobb that there was a relation between the layout of the quadrant "colors" around the ship and a certain electronic tabletop game he remembered playing as a small boy with his grandfather- but he had reason to suspect there was.

"Simon says the sphere is clear.", announced the SSO from her post in the CIC just outside of the working area of sensor functions, the "sensor shack".

"The sphere is clear, aye.", CDR Devereaux affirmed, sounding neither relieved nor disappointed that an opportunity to do battle had not presented itself, saying rather to LCDR Petersen, "XO, engage master fire control safeties and keep us in assigned station on the _Bristol._ –No work for us just yet."

"Aye, ma'am.", Petersen replied, "Fire Control, safety your panels, return all guns and launchers from battery, and keep the weapons grid warm on stand-by. Helm, maintain this relative position on _Bristol._ "

Watching the CIC's main holographic tactical display that was showing in real time as the Doolittle Task Force divided into "Doolittle One", the Flagship and heavy hitters, and "Doolittle Two" of which _Gordon P. Samuels_ was a member, it was easy to misjudge the higher significance of the icons representing ships parting ways in a great expanse of open space. As Devereaux's adopted mantra professed, the dividing task force was now in _harm's way_ \- and would be in much closer quarters with it soon.

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Bristol**_

Commodore Vu Tran was soundly of the belief that all combatants were subject and entitled to "nerves" in conduct of their business.

How could they not be?

Seeking conflict and killing, despite Man's history rich in savagery, were not naturally achieved pursuits and in actuality required much conditioning and training to be mastered. Fortunately there was no training regiment that made _stomaching_ the act of killing any easier- nor should there have been. It was left to the individual in the final analysis to process and deal with the darker side of survival as best as he or she could.

This being said, Tran was certain that the strain of nerves from which he was suffering were particular to he and a comparatively small number of officers, NCOs, and enlisted in the larger Doolittle Task Force.

Commodore Tran's nerves stemmed from the testing of a _concept_ in _actual_ combat.

The _Bristol_ Class Corvette Carrier, of which Tran's flagship was the first constructed, was innovative in its marrying of _utility_ and _economy_. It reflected the reality that the human race had gone from novice space-farers to having to be able to contend with races whose experience in galactic-scale space warfare preceded Earth's familiarity with steam power. It also addressed the tragic truth that Earth's first lessons into the greater meaning of conflict had cost the planet a substantial portion of its population and industrial capabilities- of which the recovery would at best still be decades in achieving.

Capital ships in the "traditional" sense (as it applied to space warfare) were the embodiment and corporal realization of a civilization's most advanced technologies. Power generation, propulsion, sensor technologies, weaponry, and the information technologies that allowed all to function found union in these dreadnaughts of the stars.

The resulting product, as evident in _SDF-3_ , was impressive and truly an accomplishment worthy of pride. However, the cost in resources to build such ships (even with the principle burden for design, manufacture, and assembly falling on the "acquired" GS-95 Robotech Factory) was staggering, and the required training and skill sets to operate them no less draining on a small pool of available personnel.

The _Garfish_ Class corvette had provided a solution to Earth's limited resource dilemma for interplanetary offense and defense. Though it lacked the "long legs" of interstellar and intergalactic travel afforded to capital ships by hyperspace fold drive systems, its powerful sub-light engines gave it speed and agility in conventional spaceflight that its larger sisters could not match.

Joining conventional and lower-order Robotech weaponry with the platform and the sensor and control systems to make them all mesh produced a relatively inexpensive class of ships that had performed heroically in the recent defense of Earth from the Te'Dak Tohl and had only faltered as an inevitable result being massively overwhelmed by enemy forces.

The _Bristol_ Class CVCS was just the next logical step- providing a "mothership" with the reach of hyperspace fold drive to take the _Garfish_ Corvette outside of the confines of a star system and to allow a dozen of them at a time to apply their attributes in the regions of deep space that they could never have reached alone.

The corvette carrier was more than just a limousine for the smaller fighting ships, of course. It provided C2, EW, InfoLink networking support as well as a myriad of other functions besides being a mobile port and base of operations to the corvettes. The concept had been well groomed and refined through all stages of design and manufacture, and had proven itself in space trials and exercises.

-But exercise time had ended.

Commodore Tran could not be begrudged his nerves as Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter had considered his proposal of the corvette carriers in Operation Doolittle carefully- and in agreeing had wagered much on Tran's promises.

Before the day was out, _Bristol_ and her sisters _Monroeville_ , _Cacak Ya yak,_ and _Docksta_ would have to deliver on that promise or fail disastrously.

Commodore Tran had no intent of failing as the equally combat-untested _SDF-3_ fell astern in the company of the rest of "Doolittle One": the four arsenal ships that looked to Tran like overfed physician's tongue depressors with a minimal superstructure and conning tower riding low and far aft on the hull, and the "domesticated adversary" that was the refitted _Thuverl Salan_ Class Zentraedi destroyer, _Rampage_.

Tran tried not to hang his opinions on appearances- the _Bristol_ and her sister ships at roughly half the size of the oddly organic yet menacing _SDF-3_ were boxy and awkward-looking by necessity and hardly the ideal image of a warship. –And in a Zen moment of contemplation, Tran suspected that perhaps this was how it should be- that weapons should not be things of beauty.

"Range to Doolittle One opening to two thousand kilometers, Commodore.", Captain Holt, the _Bristol'_ s commanding officer reported.

"Signal all units and begin the jump clock.", Tran ordered knowing that a safe distance had been reached for the ships under his command to fold away from Hayes-Hunter's flagship.

"Aye sir, thirty second clock to fold has started."

The next position leap would bring Doolittle Two as close to the enormous mass of Sol as space-folding would safely allow- and then one additional jump to position the task force element for its attack.

 _Action this day_ …

 **Brasilia**

The explosion of ordinance and combustibles to the northeast muffled by distance and the embrace of the temperate woodland was not the spectacular billows of flame chasing at the hero's heels and throwing him to the ground in his narrow escape from a fiery end that Whilite had seen in Hollywood films and had fixated upon in his childhood. Rather the distant, clustered reports sounded more like a barefoot walk over a carpet of bubble-wrap packing and the subtle but gratifying thrills it brought.

It was not a dazzling pyrotechnics display, but was all the same evidence that the mission's core objectives had been achieved.

Now- it was just the matter of _surviving_ the mission….

The air high above the thick canopy of trees was split with the distinctive, gravelly roar of Gnerl Fighter Pods and their pulse-jet engines.

This, Whilite knew, was the sound and fury of the aftermath of a successful hit and run operation. The enemy garrison was throwing everything they had into a counterattack on an enemy whom they had neither seen nor whose composition they understood. The Gnerls were a statement of defiance, searching the night sky and landscape for phantom foes in hopes of taking the edge off of the shame of being sucker-punched.

The Fighter Pods were not the asymmetric opponent that caused Lt Whilite concern though.

The woods were alive with the nerve-grating splintering of trees around the movement of Regult Combat Pods and the _crunch_ of detritus and dead wod beneath the heavy fall of their mechanical, ostrich-like step-.

Whether the Zentraedi garrison's commander had benefitted from experience, or had been inspired by the moment- the enemy had wasted minimal time in deploying mecha out in all directions radiating from their burning base camp. The movement casting the net had been a rapid one and devoid of any notion of searching for the perpetrators of the attack- but as Staff Sergeant Byerly had feared in confidence with her superior, the point of the outward movement was not the genuine search.

That was taking place now.

The net cast was wide, and there were abundant gaps to slip through still- but there was an aggressive intensity to the sweep of Regults' spotlights that threw long shadows in their search as the mecha wove erratically and collapsed again toward the center.

While the Regults were a legitimate threat to the four platoons of Echo Company and the attached ASC platoon now travelling in loose, parallel columns west- all knew that the mecha was in play to flush the raiders out by provoking panic or rash action.

It was the Zentraedi infantry in company-plus strength that Harris and Fuller had seen deploying in pursuit and had reported before abandoning their sniper's nest that was causing the jitters understandably. Regults could bring sensory equipment to the search and heavier firepower to bear, but the infantry had the benefit of numbers. –Advanced, multi-spectrum optics were a wonderful technology, but sometimes what was needed was warriors combing an area shoulder-to-shoulder. –And with the enemy they were seeking, the stomp of a boot was every bit as effective as a rapid-fire particle beam cannon.

Whilite had no intention of either being reduced to a patch of scorched earth with a puddle of sizzling goo at its center, or to be scraped out of a giant boot sole's tread with a stick like the world's largest "doggy landmine". –And it was a squad of Regults nearby that stood both literally and figuratively between him and his short-term goal.

A dry creek bed that had long since grown over along its meandering path northeast to southwest had become the logical position of concealment for 3rd Platoon at detecting the Regult force on the return sweep.

Whilite's Rangers pressed themselves into the western bank of the former creek, mindful to keep below the erosion-worn edge and below the line of sight of enemy mecha that could be heard trampling the woodland floor only a short distance away. Had it only been the Rangers of his platoon in the creek bed, Whilite's nerves would not have been as on edge by half. The unexpected contact with and attachment of Staff Sergeant Alvarez's Mountain Recon platoon had changed the equation though.

Whilite had no fear of panic or lack of discipline in Alvarez's men giving away their position in the creek bed. –No, The Army of The Southern Cross lacked some of the technological sophistication and refinement of the RDF-Army, but the mental and physical ruggedness as well as the bravery of the men and women wearing the ASC uniform was never questioned by anyone who had actually seen them in action or had come after them into a combat area.

Fresh off of a skedaddle of two kilometers on the double-quick though, their technological disadvantages were now 3rd Platoon's as well.

Where Whilite's troops' body heat was nulled by their body armor's thermal masking systems, the Mountain Recon troops were glowing with IR brilliance for searching Zentraedi eyes with the aid of thermal optics to see. Understanding this, Alvarez's unit had employed what countermeasures they could- blanketing themselves with dead and fallen leaves- but this was at best a modest safeguard against casual observation.

For Alvarez and his unit to slip the shrinking net, either the Regults' attention would need to be drawn away or the most astounding luck would need to befall them and 3rd Platoon by extension.

-And as Whilite remembered Sergeant Major MacDonald saying to Echo Company's sergeants and enlisted on many occasions- _luck_ was not a tactic, and _hope_ was four-letter word reserved for chaplains….

Neither Staff Sergeant Byerly nor any of the other Rangers lower on the chain were banking on either luck or hope though. Beside him, Whilite could hear Byerly cycle out the grenade chambered in her M-35's launcher, muzzle-load an M-77 anti-mecha rocket, and return the forestock-pump to the forward position- locking in and readying the rocket.

The M-177was an adequate "feel good" solution to a grunt's dilemma: how was an infantryman to contend with enemy infantry who physically stood on average 14.5 meters tall and weighed half again as much as a mature, African Elephant bull? -Or, for that matter with mecha built to enhance the combat effectiveness of the same?

The M-77 and M-78 rockets had been presented as the "good enough" solution.

With its propellant charge-encasing, expanding fin stabilizer shaft loaded and locked down the barrel of the M-35's grenade launcher and its long, slender conical shaped warhead extending some 20cm beyond the rifle's muzzle, bayonet-like – an M-77 at the ready was an almost comical sight to be seen.

To members of the Regult family within 500m of the infantryman armed with the M-77, and whose thin frontal armor could be penetrated by the shaped-charge warhead- the unsophisticated weapon was less humorous.

When striking a sensitive area of a Regult, the M-77 made short work of the electronics that were the brain and nerve fibers of any mecha's control systems. And if the delicate circuitry of a Regult was missed altogether, the penetrating shaped-charge and the spall it threw from the mecha's own interior surface was sufficient to injure and stun to varying degrees the pilot, if not in less common occurrences- kill.

Less effective against Glaug Officer's Pods and power armor with their thicker protective armor, the M-77's sibling the M-78 was also available to the infantryman, and could damage control systems and throw spall about a mecha's interior as easily by use of a "squash-head" charge. Not intended to penetrate and true to its name, the M-78 was based off of a British anti-tank round dating back to The Second World War that detonated its explosive charge on the exterior face of an enemy's armor. Like the desk toy with the suspended ball bearings where drawing back and releasing a single ball bearing on one side caused with its strike to the line a single ball bearing at the other end of the line to swing away a comparable distance, the energy of the explosion was then transmitted through the enemy's armor. On the interior face of the armor, the result was of the same principle as the ball bearings only far more violent.

The Rangers, having prepared for the possibility of contact with enemy mecha had brought both- but far too few to sustain anything more than the shortest of fights. With that in mind, Staff Sergeant Byerly was obliged to issue orders on the understood as 3rd Platoon readied themselves.

"- _Hold fire until El-Tee gives the word!..."_

As Whilite detached the camera unit from his helmet and affixed it to the end of a telescoping carbon-fiber rod designed for that very purpose he wished quietly that knowing the right _if_ and _when_ of giving that order was as easy as following it. It was the burden that came with the prestige and lavish paycheck associated with command-.

Raising the rod and camera like a periscope over the edge of the eroded bank, Whilite and Byerly took in its view on the high resolution LCD screen of the C2 Interface Device "CID" strapped to the lieutenant's left forearm. Sergeant Harris and Corporal Fuller had insisted on bringing the RAV-6 Tinkerbelles that had helped in fixing on and identifying Alvarez's unit for this very purpose, but the sniper team was themselves on the move out somewhere on the land and could not assist in safely probing the enemy.

With their spotlights blazing into the darkness of the woods, there was no need for the camera's night vision feature as Whilite and Byerly assessed what they say.

"One at ten o'clock-.", Byerly noted as Whilite paned the camera with a simple twist of the rod handle between his fingers, "-And _two, three, four_ \- about a seventy-five meters away at two o'clock… Are they bored or something? -It looks like they're gabbing at the damn water cooler."

Whilite understood Byerly's meaning as he saw how three Regults actually were standing in a cluster facing one another as though engaged in a casual chat. Of course what was going on between the pilots was anyone's guess, but the staff sergeant's description was warranted.

"..Shit..", Whilite muttered, "If it weren't for our boy at ten o'clock, we could probably just duck south another fifty meters and scoot on through."

"-Too easy for professionals of our caliber.", Byerly replied bleakly, "Gonna have to earn that combat pay… Though, maybe we use part of that thought of yours, El-Tee-."

"Which one?'

"Scoot south a bit, and hit that loner hard- bring his buddies running."

Whilite nodded with understanding, "Yeah, knock `em out on the charge if we have to, or just let `em plow on south hunting for us-. In either case, that opens the door wide for you to move, Alvarez."

To Whilite's right, Staff Sergeant Alvarez had been watching the min-tablet sized LCD screen intently and listening to the conversation of his Ranger counterparts- waiting for his unit's part in their escape.

"Sure..", Alvarez agreed, "-But I'll be honest, Lieutenant- it doesn't feel right, you sticking your necks out so we can make a dash for safety. It don't seem right no matter how you figure it."

Whilite shrugged, "Well, you're not packing heat for this fight- but if you'd rather stay and do the shooting and we can slip off to the west, I could probably be persuaded."

Alvarez hesitated at the thought and then replied, "Maybe better your way this time. We'll bring the beer home and say we owe you one to pay back later?"

"Done.", Whilite agreed switching his CID back to the map COP he had already used to identify the next rallying point for his Rangers. Tapping the screen indicatively, he showed Alvarez.

"It's a storm culvert about three hundred meters due west with a concrete pipe outlet big enough for a couple of squads to cover in if you're not big on comfort. When the fireworks start, take the chance to move when it comes and we meet up again there."

"Roger that.", Alvarez agreed, "We'll be there."

Whilite turned to Byerly, saying, "Get us on our feet, Sergeant-. I want to get us home before curfew."

"Roger that, El-Tee…."

One of the confounding characteristics of the Cyclone that Naib Subedar Singh had never quite grown accustomed to as he had trained and operated with the riding system/power armor until it was as much a part of him as his own hands was the way in which the powerful wheel hub drive motors never emitted more than a pronounced hum- even at high RPMs.

-And there were times that Singh wished that they did.

Such was the case now as a trio of Regults crashed through the mid-age temperate growth some thirty to forty meters behind Singh's rear wheel with much the same catastrophic noise and menace as a rock slide clearing a path down a steep mountainside.

At frequent intervals, the woodland would light up and explode from particle beam fire near and at points around Singh and two Gurkha riflemen, Baker and Singh (no relationship to the senior officer, simply a coincidence in the commonness of the name amongst Sikhs) who still raced with him in loose formation through the enveloping obstacle course of trees. The Regults, who had been _five_ when they had accepted the surviving 70th Rifles' invitation to take up pursuit were clearly still sore at the sting of the losses inflicted by the notably smaller Cyclones and their micronian riders and would not be deterred from firing by the inherent inaccuracy of aim caused by crashing through the terrain.

He had lost no one this night, Naib Subedar Singh reminded himself as he felt the heat of a short burst of particle beam bolts stitch and pit the soft woodland ground ahead and right, and was pelted in a shower of smoldering, rich earth and detritus- but it was enough of a jolt to the nerves to keep the adrenal gland valves full-open and to remind him that the gamble he'd made early in the chase at detaching Hughes and Ramsey was a wager with high stakes. The Regult trio maintained their pursuit of him and Riflemen Baker and Singh though, so chances were fair to good that they would not be expecting to find them ahead- assuming that indeed Hughes and Ramsey had managed to edge far enough ahead to position themselves.

In 700 meters where by Nature's selection or by Man's, the woodland ended, Singh would have his answer for sure regarding the gamble on Hughes and Ramsey. –But also, there was no shame at moments like this in hedging one's bets.

Terrain mapping permitted by the Cyclone's rapid pulse microwave radar was projected as overlay onto the interior of Singh's helmet visor, joining with image intensification that were the sole reasons allowing the driver to navigate woodlands in pitch dark at 170Kmph, and showed also that the density of trees was about to thin significantly. –Now was the time to hedge.

"Sharma, Hughes- break from me left and right and make your way into the open-.", Naib Subedar Singh ordered as a long, sloping dip ending in low but abrupt rise caused the officer to leave the ground for a harrowing moment and endure the clatter of low tree branches snapping against the metal of his CVR riding armor and his Cyclone mount itself before the tires found firm purchase on the ground again.

"-If they slip Singh and Baker, hit from the flanks. –And watch the skies for fighters!"

Singh, in the lead, did not see the men in his company break away left and right, but sensed it as one sensed the change from sharing a danger with others to shouldering it alone. -And _alone in peril_ was exactly what Singh felt as the trees whipping by around him and the ground with which his Cyclone barely seemed to maintain contact exploded at bursts of particle beam bolts. The open ground now only several hundred meters on meant a greater freedom of movement for Singh to evade his pursuers, but it also meant shedding any semblance of cover and entering the environment that the Regults were intended to operate in.

"We have you, sir!", called the Gurkha Rifleman who shared Naib Subedar Singh's name, "-Bring them between us and we'll clear your six!"

Two icons indicating Rifleman Singh's and Baker's relative positions flashed a moment within the abundance of navigation and tactical displays projected into the inside of Naib Subedar Singh's helmet visor as his subordinates activated their transponders and then went dark With Gnerls prowling the sky, and the possibility of other enemy threats rushing into the area the transponders were only a minor risk, but one that did not need to be taken.

Singh had what he needed though- the line drawn by his two men beyond which all might be fine. –They were two Gurkhas, after all- _more_ than enough…

The parcel of woodland east of the enemy-occupied airport was at an abrupt end just ahead, parting like heavy draperies before Singh just beyond the crest of a rise whose use the Naib Subedar had already decided.

" _Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali!"_

Nearly center to the 50 meter span between Riflemen Singh and Baker, the meeting of trees burst outward in an eruption of splintered branches and leaves with the high-speed, airborne passage of a VR-052 Cyclone- its rider raised from the seat and anchored to the motorcycle-form's footrests with his upper body balanced over and supported by the handlebars. The electric drive motors robbed the scene of the drama of a internal combustion engine's roar as older generation bikes would have provided, but as the Cyclone came to the ground and remained upright under the masterful control of Naib Subedar Singh, there was still the promise of abundant and violent drama.

If the high-speed passage of a single Cyclone had been an eruption from the woodland, the passage of three Regults at near full-charge was an _explosion._

Rifleman Singh remained on one knee, his Cyclone's bi-functional components reassembled and affixed to his CVR exoskeletal body armor to form the vehicle's Battloid power armor configuration. Cover and concealment for the Cyclone Battloid that rivaled larger male Zentraedi in micronized form in terms of height and bulk was problematic in most types of terrain, but Rifleman Singh had learned to make use of what was available- and also to never underestimate the advantages afforded by an enraged enemy.

Live timber broken crudely at points near their trunk bases were scattered out into the open field east of the woodlands like a fistful of straw cast into the wind- driven by charging mass of the three Regults that followed in long, running strides.

Rifleman Singh, his vision enhanced by the image intensification optics of his Battloid saw the whole landscape bleach out in a milky green aura as the low-light burn of two mini-missiles fired by his counterpart, Rifleman Baker, was amplified in their launch. As Singh targeted the Regult closest to him in the wedge formation of mecha, Baker's missiles struck the left flanking Battle Pod just above its left knee- severing the limb with the blast of two armor piercing warheads.

The stricken Regult finished the stride of its intact leg with hardly a wobble from the damage sustained to the other, but in reaching the moment when the other foot should be making contact with ground but was not there to do so….

The one-legged Regult holding the small formation's left flank went to ground on the nub of its severed leg at full-charge speed and went into an uncontrolled coupling of a roll and a summersault.

Rifleman Singh fired a pair of his own mini-missiles at his target just as Baker's target made its first tumble. Singh's target was probably not even aware that his comrade had been felled when both mini-missiles fired by the Gurkha struck the right flanking Regult in the leg junction box just behind the right hip. Flame and debris flashed out of the nozzle of the Regult's dormant booster whose applications in atmosphere and gravity were limited as a the Regult emitted a loud sound of clattering and grinding metal. The Battle Pod's legs, normally powerful and limber, froze with sudden arthritic rigidity and the mecha went in similar inglorious stumbling to ground as its counterpart.

Naib Subedar Singh eased off the throttle on hic Cyclone and attempted to swallow again his heart that seemed to pound at the back of his tonsils. The explosions to his rear spoke strongly of indications that Riflemen Baker and Singh were engaged and certainly had the attention of the Regults who had smashed a path through the woods that the officer had navigated so deftly without a collision.

As the speed bled off with the resistance of high grass and brush, the Cyclone no longer left contact with the ground with each fall and rise in the terrain and afforded Singh the ability to turn.. Leaning into the left turn, Singh was confident enough in feeling the purchase of his tires in the ungraded field to steal glances west back along his own path to assess the fight that demanded rejoining.

His junior, fellow Singh was locked in a David and Goliath firefight- endemic to this War- with the sole, standing Regult whose progression toward the woods it had just exited in pursuit of the Naib Subedar showed its pilot's realization that he had entered a kill zone prepared hastily but effectively by the Gurkhas. A fine, rapid pulse of particle beam fire from the rifleman's PR-45 energy rifle pelted the Regult's frontal body in the tight grouping mastered only with extensive and intense training. Sparks and sublimated armor veiled the mecha's features, but did not prevent a reply in kind from the dual antenna-like energy weapons mounted frontally and atop the Battle Pod. Soil and rock was displaced from the ground intermingled with the flash of burning vegetation as the Zentraedi Warrior saturated the area from which Rifleman Singh had initiated his attack.

 _Jab and move_ had been the training mantra impressed upon Cyclone riders in training for such an eventuality, as substantial as a Battloid's protection was compared to conventional body armor- it did not promise survival against a well-aimed burst of Regult particle beam bolts. –And Rifleman Singh had been a devout student.

A blast of thrust rocketed the rifleman's Battloid skyward, escaping the Regult's line of fire long enough for a mini-missile fired from Baker's position still at the woodland's tree line to slam into the mecha's thinner side armor and send it staggering to ground.

Naib Subedar Singh sensed himself the Alpha wolf for a moment as the Zentraedi Warrior in the sole, standing Regult began to realize the true, mortal danger he was in. As the substantially larger Regult joined in its deadly dance with the comparatively diminutive Cyclone Battloid operated by Rifleman Singh, it may not have been aware of Rifleman Hughes who had now arrived and entered the field at its northern fringe with the woodlands. More likely, the Zentraedi was aware of Sharma who had similarly arrived on the field to the south and had just transformed his cycle into its Battloid form to join the fight. –And there was no doubt that the alien had not forgotten the senior Singh, whose pursuit had put him into such unanticipated peril.

The other wolves of the pack were poising themselves to bring down the last of the ambulatory prey as Rifleman Baker, near to the Regult he had brought down, was employing his PR-45 in a relentless attack on the mecha's dazed pilot who was pulling himself free through the hatch in an elbow crawl. Unnerving wails of pain escaped the giant and mingled with the other sounds of battle as Baker chose the placement of the energy bursts from his rifle with trained precision and lethal intent. Tight patterns of particle beam bolts pierced Zentraedi body armor where it was the thinnest and tore through the less resistant flesh, bone, and organs within. Like a matador expertly dispatching a bull, Baker quickly inflicted increasingly serious wounds until the act concluded with a final, gurgling cry from the warrior, face-down in the field who then went silent with several last, convulsive twitches.

Naib Subedar Singh's Cyclone reassembled around his riding armor into Battloid form, artificially augmenting his running speed as he charged in to join the attack on the last, staggering Regult that was suffering from attacks on all sides. Mini-missiles, or energy fire could have decided the uneven contest quickest- but in observance of Gurkha tradition called for a different resolution.

From the vambrace of each of Singh's Battloid's forearms the broadsword-like, double edged, meter long blades of the power armor's Close-Quarters Assault/Defense System (CADS-1) sprang to the ready like a street hood's switchblade. Composed of a uniquely blended, super steel alloy the CADS-1 blades possessed the strength to savagely assault light to medium mecha armor systems under the force and stresses generated by the Cyclone Battloid's superhuman strength. It was the live molecular edge of the weapons though, laser honed to a razor's sharpness, that truly made viable bladed weapons on a battlefield otherwise dominated by Robotechnology.

Rifleman Sharma reached the last upright Battle Pod first. Having transitioned from cycle to Battloid form at some point in the brief moments between when Singh had seen him on the southern end of the field to now, Sharma entered the corner of his commander's vision at the onset of a running leap that at its worst would have shamed the best Olympic distance jumper. As the Regult's unblinking red sensor eye seemed to fix on Naib Subedar Singh as the most immediate threat, Sharma passed just behind its right knee and slashing with a back-handed, left arm stroke at the mecha's bird-like tarsus.

With a metallic ringing of incised terilium alloy, the Regult struggled to compensate with its good leg for the one that had had the mechanical equivalent of having its hamstring cut.

Feeling as though he was going beneath the tank of a teetering water tower to remove its last, good supporting strut- Naib Subedar Singh reached a full run in his Battloid's enhanced ability before making a leaping pass at the faltering Battle Pod's left leg similar to what Rifleman Sharma had done to the right.

Singh's slashing, left CADS blade passed its cutting edge deep through the anterior of the Regult's left tarsus, lower on the leg however than what Sharma had done to the right. Still, the blade severed vital driving and articulating servomechanisms, power channels, and structural support elements casing instantaneous failure of the limb.

Singh could feel the Regult crumpling above him as its normally robust legs failed as the momentum of the Gurkha's power-leap carried him through the low-arc of flight he had launched into on the attack. The ground shook beneath the shock-absorbing feet and legs of Singh's Battloid as it made contact with the ground a moment ahead of the stricken Regult.

As Rifleman Sharma recovered and returned from his own leaping pass at the Regult, Naib Subedar Singh felt it trip deep in the primal regions of his brain- the initiation of what he had heard refer to as "the mad minute"; the moment in a fight when the combatants on both sides _knew_ that the life of one or the other was now measurable in seconds.

The Zentraedi Warrior piloting the Regult must have felt too whatever his kind called "the mad minute", as from its awkwardly collapsed posture atop now-useless legs, he fired a broad, sweeping arc of laser bolts at nothing but horizon and distant treeline- a display more of defiance than of significance.

The hatch at the rear of the Regult's domed upper body was thrust open with great violence and the strangely organic length of muzzle and barrel jacket of a standard Zentraedi infantry rifle thrust skyward into the night, followed by the arm holding it at the grip. The arm in turn gave way to a head in the standard-issue _stahlhelm_ -like Zentraedi helmet and a set of shoulders whose dimensions whose proportions suggested a creature larger than what should have fit into the space of a Regult's cockpit.

" _Cho'ya na'heytrashnak cho'haht!_ "

Naib Subedar Singh, fluent in four languages indigenous to or used widely in India, and functional in three others from the continent of Asia was like his subordinate riflemen at a loss as to the exact translation of the alien's war cry- but _exact translation_ was a moot point.

Singh recognized a challenge to combat, and in some way like certain native tribes of the American Plains whose stories had been of interest to him in his youth- an alien parallel of the "death song", preparing the spirit for a mortal end.

Whether the Zentraedi Warrior was challenging, threatening, or praying was irrelevant now. As long as he drew breath, Singh's Gurkhas had reason to fear-.

Two armor-piercing mini-missiles from the shoulder launchers of Rifleman Sharma's Battloid struck the Zentraedi Warrior high in his body armor's chest plate as he had freed himself to the waist from his stricken Regult. The explosion of terilium and carbon fiber mingled with a sharp, involuntary cry of pain and distress that deepened into a tenor bellow of indignation as the force of the explosions sent the warrior off his balance in a topple to the ground.

The giant's arms began wheel wildly for balance or purchase, the grip of the rifle coming free of his grasp in the process. Warrior and rifle went to ground in an undignified heap of flailing limbs that might have ended up on top of Naib Subedar Singh had he been a moment's slower in his instinctive response to move. The curled, claw-like fingers of the warrior's right hand missed the officer- barely- but the stock of the rifle it had held did not as the weapon returned to earth toppling end-over-end like a baton not caught on the decent by the one who had tossed it.

Singh felt all the air his lungs had held leave him as the rifle butt connected squarely with his Battloid's chest and sent him flying like a golf ball struck by a driver. The following second or two of flight were serene with the body's natural shock reaction, and his lungs even were able to regain some breath before the crush of contact with the ground drove it from him again.

Singh, resilient naturally and through the rigors of combat training was trying to right himself even as his Battloid dug furloughs into the unmanaged field as it slid to rest. There was a dull ache from all points of his body as he got his feet beneath himself again and shook free the dirt and uprooted wild grasses he had accumulated- the soreness he anticipated tomorrow being a small price to pay for a blow that would have killed him if not for the armored exoskeleton of his Cyclone Battloid.

-Now was not the time to count one's fortunes though.

The Zentraedi Warrior who had indirectly attacked Singh was also showing signs of rallying- slowly rolling to his left side in the process of righting himself despite the holes in his armor's chest plate and the wounds beneath that still gave off thin wisps of smoke into the night air.

His CADS-1 blades still extended from his slashing attack on the now-wounded Zentraedi Warrior's Regult, Singh broke into a full run at the alien's back as it continued to turn over- diving at several meters distance at several meters distance at the most vulnerable area presented.

Singh's right blade entered the alien armor where the _gorget_ collar joined with the base of the helmet, penetrating the alien's skull as well. The warrior gave an involuntary grunt as a twist of Singh's blade severed his spinal cord from the brain stem. The giant's body gave the illusion of peaceful relaxation as his muscles were robbed of neural direction. The heart in its involuntary nature continued though, evident as Singh withdrew his blade and reinserted it through the side of the warrior's neck. There was a fountain of blood as arteries were severed and Singh's blade exited with a forward slash through the muscles, tissues, and throat.

Singh's use of adapted knife-fighting techniques seemed gruesome and primitively brutal given the advanced weaponry the Cyclone was equipped with- and the resulting splatter of alien blood that coated Singh and Sharma who had been caught in the spray while closing to assist in dispatching the alien seemed to testify to this. –But the killing methods were efficient, and the brutality was partially the point.

This was not intentional cruelty or depravity for the sake of depravity however. The 70th Gurkha Rifles had in their time with the 1st Royal Gurkha Regiment in Brasilia left scores of headless, malcontent Zentraedi bodies- courtesy of skill in the use of their traditional kukri knives. The _psychological_ effect on the enemy had far outweighed any practical measurement of reduction in their forces within the contested city- having fostered within two weeks' time of the 1RGR's arrival a fear in the alien combatants to venture outside of their strongholds after nightfall lest they too be found the next day with heads removed like the growing number of their comrades.

It was this fear and its advantages that Singh sought to establish anew with a force to whom the Gurkhas were unknown- and the cost was a measure of savagery.

"-You know what to do.", Naib Subedar Singh said to Sharma, indirectly issuing his order.

Riflemen Singh, Hughes, and Baker had verified the killing of the other two Zentraedi and were at the task that their Naib Subedar had ordered Sharma to as he began to complete the task of decapitation with careful and powerful strokes of one of his CADS-1 blades.

Naib Subedar Singh was only partially aware of the butchering going on within a meter and a half of where he stood. He had changed the frequency on his comms to the tactical channel established for the operation in an effort to establish the Rangers' position and status.

-The distant pop of explosions and report of automatic weapons fire along with the radio traffic he was hearing was not what he had hoped.

Whilite landed heavily in the soft, composting carpet of the woodland catching a face-full of Byerly's left boot sole for his haste in going to ground. Driven by the urgency of the moment, an arrangement of co-occupancy of the same space was found as they wedged themselves into the underside curve of a long fallen tree whose trunk their bodies paralleled.

The heavy crunch of the stalking Regult's step fell close and in proximity that the lieutenant could distinguish the cracking and splintering of individual fallen twigs beneath the weight carried by mechanical feet.

Shadows fell long and distinct along the periphery of a field of light thrown by the Regult's sole remaining spotlight. These shadows danced as perfect partners with the movement of the beam in the Regult's search effort. Thickening smoke was illuminated dramatically in clouds and curtains that drifted through the beam, twirling in other places on an invisible axis as it was caught in eddies on breaths of wind.

The smoke's origin was not exclusively the greenwood set alight nearby by energy weapon fire, nor of the larger fires growing in and around the skirmish further north. Some of the smoke was attributable to the wound inflicted by PFC Diaz to the Regult now hunting him and the two senior members of 3rd Platoon.

In their bounding withdrawal from the area, Diaz had fired an M-77 anti-mecha rocket at the Regult to foster the distraction required for 2nd Squad to displace and move. Fired at the Regult's frontal region, at or around the vulnerable sensor eye in hopes of blinding – or less likely _killing_ – the mecha, the rocket had gone high and left. The hit achieved in haste had severed the power channels to the Regult's left particle beam cannon and had with its detonation also smashed the port spotlight.

While 2nd Squad had been afforded the ability to move without a shot fired against them, it had also clearly aroused a measure of vengeance in the Regult's pilot. The methodical sweep of light indicated search with purpose.

Whilite's heart entered his throat as a nearby whir of articulation motors was followed by a solid bumping and metallic scarping of Regult toes against the opposite side of the tree trunk from the one under which the three Rangers covered. Glancing up, Whilite could see mecha's rounded body from beneath, pivoting slightly at the hips as it searched for prey that was literally almost under foot. The beam of the starboard spotlight moved in unison with the mecha's functioning particle beam cannon, whose tip Whilite could see in motion around the girth of the Regult.

"-Take out the leg junction box, you think?", Whilite suggested in a whisper to Byerly as indications of motion further up the length of the log suggested Diaz was loading a second anti-mecha rocket.

While the most ruggedly constructed component of any of the Regult's parts, the leg junction box was also the most affected by sustained damage from direct attack- and in this case the junction box of this Regult could have been hit easily by a hand-tossed stone.

" _..Sure, El-Tee.._ ", Byerly replied, the tone of her voice negating even the suggestion of agreement that her words offered, "-With it standing _over_ us? Let it move on a few steps and then we'll give it a rocket up the bung-."

Whilite instantly liked Byerly's idea better given the well-contemplated and worded nature of her argument.

" _Or, we could do that too._ "

The log rocked in a sudden motion toward the Rangers that for an instant had Whilite thinking that it would roll over onto them. Instead, the foot that had given the log a solid nudge rose over it- over Whilite directly, raining carried soil and leaves down on him as it extended on the end of the Regult's leg another few meters before coming down solidly to earth again. The other leg and foot followed in what seemed a step executed with exaggerated care- a giant's parody of creeping.

The Regult's movements normalized as it put several paces between itself and the three observers whom it still presumably sought as prey.

Staff Sergeant Byerly was quickest to rise from a prone, covering position- tugging Diaz up as she went. Whilite joined his subordinates on the side of the log that had moments earlier had been the Regult's, but that was now their best cover.

"Your call, El-Tee-.", Byerly said as the Regult began to push its way through trees to the sound of cracking and snapping limbs, "Let `im go, or take the cheap shot?"

PFC Diaz already had an answer from the lieutenant in mind and was awaiting confirmation with his left forearm supporting his M-35 resting for steadiness on the log they had collectively just crossed for a second time.

Whilite felt the real temptation to simply let the Regult march away in false pursuit and return battered to his garrison. 3rd Platoon and the reduced ASC Mountain Recon plaoon they had come across was slipping contact with the enemy as well, promising a clean break.

But still-.

"You know how I hate loose ends, Sergeant-. Let's at least make him walk home for his offense."

Byerly was next to Diaz in a flash with her rifle also poised and ready also, the M-77 rocket muzzle-loaded into the grenade launcher awaiting her good aim through the weapon's quick sights. There wasn't a sound, let alone a word of protest from Whilite's senior NCO as he joined the firing line to her right- but he'd developed the ability to tune into her wavelength enough to feel a vibe of hesitation- maybe even disapproval.

But Byerly did not voice it, nor would have Whilite entertained it. The mission objective had been at one level to harass the enemy by attacking their stores- but the deeper implication was psychological warfare in its oldest sense- demoralize the enemy.

A Zentraedi Warrior driving his battle-ravaged Regult back to camp could spin circumstances and events to be seen as a hero to his comrades. One who left camp with a Regult and returned on foot later was the epicenter of humiliation for the whole unit.

That was worth flirting with peril one last time.

"-I've got the first shot.", Byerly said, any reservation she had moderated by her breating that she mastered for the sake of a steady shot, "I've got better aim than you, El-Tee- _sorry_ \- and am twice as good as you, Diaz, with my eyes closed."

" _Thanks, Sarge…_ ", Diaz muttered.

Byerly let the opportunity- what she would have normally considered her _obligation_ \- to have the last word slip in the face of more pressing business. A margin of forty meters had opened between the Regult who was still futilely on the hunt for the Ranger fire team and the Rangers themselves, and continued to open by several meters with each step.

If anything, the gait of a Regult Combat Pod was precise in its repetition, allowing Byerly to anticipate the motion of her target- the mecha's leg junction box that was slightly smaller than a sub-compact car. As she was able to fix the aiming dot of her rifle's quick sights on a point in space that the swaying box returned to consistently, it became only a matter of figuring the time it would take the rocket to travel to target-.

Byerly flipped off the grenade launcher's firing safety and her finger found the trgger.

The Regult paused suddenly- seeming to the Rangers to have sensed it was on the verge of being attacked, and causing the breathing of the fire team to catch uniformly.

The Regult did not suddenly turn on them to fire though, as each mind was darkly prophesizing- but rather exploded into forward motion in a crashing charge through the standing trees.

To the north, an equally abrupt cease in the report of particle beam cannons that changed similarly to the pronounced snapping of live tree trunks before mechanical bodies said that the flight of Byerly's target was not an isolated event.

Zentraedi were not known to retreat from an enemy- especially one operating without benefit of mecha- but these were retreating from something.

Whilite's blood cooled to think that these warriors were so quick to break contact for whatever was to come next.

As Naib Subedar Singh's voice broke urgently over the tactical command frequency, sounding dire without panic, Whilite knew his instincts to be correct.

" _All Echo Company- EGRESS IMMEDIATELY WEST! Fighter Pods are inbound your position in ground attack formation! CLEAR OUT!..._ "

Whilite was on his feet faster than he could ever recall moving with the weapon he'd been a moment's decision away from using safetied for the retreat on the double-quick.

Somehow Staff Sergeant Byerly had beaten him to the ready and was leading the charge west as the direction from Singh had called for. Whilite found himself in a dash over the soft contours of woodland floor with Diaz holding pace to his right, bursting through sparse brush and avoiding snags as numerous but different from those that seemed to conspire against Whilite.

Over the pounding of his own heart and the roar of his breath, the lieutenant became of another sound far behind but distinct and menacing in the consistency with which it rose and its growing proximity.

It was the throaty, choppy thunder of Gnerl pulse-jets at low altitude.

With the artificial illumination of the camp darkened and flames continuing to build and spread in the stockpile area not directly in line-of-sight, Point Lieutenant Jarrot was able to track the flight of Gnerls sortied minutes earlier. Having just passed overhead the fighters could be picked out against the dark sky by the distinctive tri-dot burn of their engine configuration as they dropped altitude and swept toward the expanse of woodland in which skirmishing force of Regults and dismounted warriors had engaged the fleeing force of micronian raiders.

Shamefully his force had been largely ineffective against the micronians who showed no evidence of mecha support or even motorized mobility, but whose warrior's skills and weapons had cost Jarrot a number of his skirmishers.

They had cost Jarrot a commander as well, thrusting him into that position of responsibility.

Galling as the attack and loss of Sub-Commander K'Rhel had been, Jarrot had not missed the lessons that the action had taught- lessons that K'Rhel had shown indications of being familiar with before his demise.

First, the attack had been skillfully planned and executed with martial expertise. –These had not been micronians of their civilian caste.

Secondly, the damage done to the depot's supply stockpiles and to the mecha dispatched after the raiders said that they were equipped for combat. There was no improvisation to the weapons or their use.

Thirdly, the micronians had now tasted success and could be counted on to return at a time of their choosing for a chance at more.

There was Warrior's work to be done on both sides of this campaign- even here, removed from the main regions of combat- and Jarrot's mind was already at work on how to accomplish it.

Small dots of light left the larger clusters that distinguished individual Gnerls low on the smoky horizon. These, barely visible were only seen for a moment before dropping below the treeline and then transforming into rising billows of flame with the burst-flicker of plasma-napalm warheads briefly at their center.

The woodland quickly vanished into flame which grew with incredible speed as the radiant heat of plasma-napalm strikes immediately lit areas not touched directly by the insidious weapon.

"That is the end of them, I should think.", Lieutenant Gidro said to Jarrot with a confidence that was easily explained by the spectacle before them. Even as he spoke, a light, artificial wind caused by the convectional uplift of the plasma-napalm driven flames could be felt building- drawn to the firestorm.

"Some perhaps.", Jarrot allowed, "-But not all. I doubt _all_ seriously."

"Then do we continue to deploy?", Gidro asked, not contesting the probability that even the airstrike just witnessed could be counted on to finish the matter.

"No-.", Jarrot replied, "We need every available Warrior to relocate the undamaged supplies we are charged with before the flames take the lot. –And because what enemy has survived is now scattered out there. It would be like clutching at sand."

"Then what's our plan to retaliate?"

"Let them return to their lair like Invid to the hive. It cannot be far, and they will be easier to deal with when trapped."

"Or, like Invid, more dangerous.", Gidro observed shrewdly.

"Probably both.", Jarrot conceded, "But recall the garrison to the perimeter. We deal with this mess first."

 **Earth / Mars Interplanetary Space, .2 AUs from Earth**

A great, artificial island floated in the sea of dark, cold emptiness drifting with the current whims of distant gravitational forces.

Unlike islands as they naturally occurred, this one was segmented into measured columns, rows, and lines of _Quiltra Quelena_ landing ships whose collective numbers stretched thousands of kilometers at precise intervals between each heavily laden giant.

Mindful of their flock, the sheep dogs of the fleet's supply element kept a vigilant display of picketing – hurried enough in the circuits they ran to mask the tedium and boredom of the assignment drawn by these destroyer crews in comparison to others whose recent assignments, while unexpected, had at least the promise of greater glory.

The common sense of injustice felt amongst the destroyer crews, of which there was a measurable amount, was contained by discipline and the promise of a war still in its opening days and with its episodes of battle not yet completed. There was a forced deference for the force of heavy units and their destroyer escorts idling nearby with even less demonstrated purpose than those destroyers screening the transport ships and defending them from the solar wind.

The frustration of these crews had surpassed frustration as battle group after battle group had been dispatched with the greatest haste afforded by spacefold in search of Breetai and the honors that would come with locating him for Supreme General Krymina. Abandonment must have been the prevailing feeling as three out of every four battle groups had sortied under such orders, leaving those remaining behind to wait in tactically advantageous positions in a solar system whose only combat was being conducted on the confines of a single planet.

In this expansive void between two planets of an unremarkable system and at a moment whose arrival was of no greater significance in its anticipation to the languishing Te'Dak Tohl force present there than any of the recent moments leading up to it – interlopers appeared with a single flash of de-fold photonic displacement.

Minds dulled tactically by adherence to and focus on an unwanted routine spun without traction, giving the invaders to their own home space critical moments to seize the initiative in what followed.

Dwarfed in numbers by orders of magnitude by the Zentraedi force at a low level of stand-by, the six REF intruders were quick to approximate the warship's version of "shooting from the hip".

 _SDF-3_ whose outward appearance had not been seen by Zentraedi in combat since Zor's break from The Robotech Masters emitted a rapid, double-pulse of her active sensor arrays to firm the mapping of target positions with their reflected returns. The pulses left the vast majority of targets anonymous in classification to the scanning flagship, but provided sufficient position, range, and velocity data to establish gross firing solutions.

The task force leader shot first for reasons accountable only to principle and tradition, followed in mere fractions of a second by the refitted Zentraedi destroyer, _Rampage_ , who in firing on Te'Dak Tohl fleet units was serving to deliver a message of her own.

Both vessels were haloed in specks of light as Pegasus Mk-4C ASMs left bow, dorsal and ventral VLS, and lateral launch tubes alike on their brief, primary rocket stages. Free of their hosting platforms and programmed with rudimentary guidance to non-specific targets, the weapons in coincidental clusters engaged their sub-light engines to begin their runs at the enemy.

Refined variants of the venerable particle beam cannons sported by every Zentraedi warship opened fire in salvo fashion by battery from both _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_ as the last Pegasus missiles streaked away. Focused bolts of focused energy particles traveling not quite at the speed of light, but far faster than the engine-driven ASMs overtook the weapons on their way to the target area.

The Te'Dak Tohl heavies awoke with a start of panic that rippled through the greater number of destroyer subordinates supporting them as the first salvo of particle beams passed ahead and low. The second passed beneath the center mass of leading warships, but the _third-._

The third salvo, twelve particle beam bolts strong came in higher and passed through the trailing end of the first Te'Dak Tohl battle group striking a scout ship with four beams that penetrated deep with immediately debilitating effect, and struck with five a destroyer – shattering her port engine in its protective nacelle.

The leading _Queado-Magdomilla_ class command ship in the train of twelve reduced battle groups caused itself a scattering of its undamaged destroyer and _Salan_ scout class escorts as she taxed her Reflex power plant with the double and heavy efforts of powering up her engines and making an uncoordinated display of returned fire from her forward and port flank batteries and they ran out from their barbet enclosures. The proboscis-like bow of the command ship dipped low within a ship's length of the destroyer that had been holding station dead ahead of her in equal parts credit to the quick action of the destroyer's command crew to climb away as was due to her own to dive.

The Te'Dak Tohl formation of warships, handsome and tidy in its precision was in the process of breaking up when following particle beam salvos from the RDF elements struck home randomly in their midst, and the first Pegasus missiles began to arrive on terminal self-guidance to targets they had acquired.

 _ **SDF-3**_

" _Fire on the mountain!.._ ", exclaimed MCPO Vogel, interpreting pulsating spheres of red within the three-dimensional holographic image of the Combat Direction Center's main tactical display, "High order secondary detonations, Admiral. –We're drawing blood!"

A great whoop rose from all stations around the CDC as _SDF-3_ 's passive sensors logged evidence of salvos fired seconds earlier finding targets and initiating secondary explosions within the enemy vessels struck. The collective, celebratory holler fell quickly back into the jumble of voices overlapping one another in the hurried yet controlled conduct of their varied duties.

No one who had earned a place at a station in _SDF-3_ 's CDC needed to be reminded that first blood drawn in an engagement was not nearly as important as _last blood_ , and that initially catching an enemy force the size of the one being faced off-guard was by no means a guarantee of victory. If anything, "Doolittle One" had moments before the enemy's shock wore off and the real peril began for this element of the task force.

" _Get my damn ECMs up, Chief!"_ , Hayes-Hunter snapped from her station at the tactical display. The sharpness of her words came with the intensity and energy of the moment and carried no malice. If Vogel felt any rebuke at all in the Flag's words, she did not show it.

"All ECMs on-line, jammers and phantom-casting, Admiral!.."

As the ship's sensors filtered out the electro-magnetic noise of its own ECM systems, they continued to receive and interpret far fainter signals from surrounding space. Processed data provided by banks of automation and a "sensor shack" full of highly skilled trackers was translated to the images projected in the tactical display.

With _SDF-3_ at the center the position of friendly and hostile "master" contacts were displayed with a track overlay giving the direction being taken by each context by showing the path each had already traveled in the form of lines. Scores of different icons, each with its own significance and their own associated data floating freely beside in the laser-light model of the exterior world was easily overwhelming to the untrained eye and unfocussed mind.

Admiral Hayes-Hunter had neither though, and she divided her attention for the moment on the false sensor images being created by her flagship's "phantom casting" system, and by the tracks of Pegasus missiles fired in a broad spread at the enemy warship group by _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_.

Each Pegasus Mk-4C fired initially had been sent hunting at nearly half the speed of light with minimal information on their targets- it had been all that could be gathered by the launch platforms in the seconds following de-fold. Undaunted, the missiles had followed the path set for them until on-board computers activated their own powerful seeker heads projecting broad search cones out to a range of 40,000 kilometers. With no prioritizing target criteria provided to the initial spread of missiles fired, the weapons locked on to the first vessels entering their search cones with only the one stipulating directive preventing multiple weapons' overlap in target acquisition maintained by the missiles via a reduced InfoLink connection.

Hayes-Hunter watched as target icons flashed at their joining with the swifter Pegasus icons and tracks. Hits on enemy warships were easily identifiable by the energy signatures returned to _SDF-3_ 's passive sensors, as were any secondaries that might follow. Interpretation of how serious was the damage done was a far more complex process of interpretation by computers and sensor crews.

This was a "hit and run" battle though, Hayes-Hunter knew- and what was most important initially was to hit as hard and as fast as could be managed.

Initial results were showing that Doolittle One was doing both.

The enemy, Hayes-Hunter also knew, was already keenly intent on hitting back and in fact were already swinging. Particle beam bolts fired in salvo and in rapid-discharge fashion filled the cosmos around the six ships of Doolittle One. Most bolts were far off of target in either axis or both, the vessels that had fired them having fallen victim to surges of EM energy that clouded their sensor vision and reduced their ability to aim their weapons, and also to sensor images that they did see clearly.

While the ECM "jammers" of the six REF vessels nulled the sensor vision of enemy vessels with a steady bombardment of electrostatic noise, the far more sophisticated "phantom casting" system used selective EM frequencies to create an illusion as seen by an enemy's sensor team of a vessel and its inherent energy emissions.

Even to the comparatively unsophisticated sensor and signal analysis systems available to Zentraedi crews, careful study would eventually reveal which of twenty to thirty sensor contacts was real and which was a mirage. But in the survival-oriented frenzy of combat, the required time was seldom if ever expected to be available for such scrutiny. The tempo of battle was this shell game's ally.

Zentraedi were unsophisticated as a whole in their technologies, but Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter knew that they were _anything_ but stupid and frequently forced to improvise and inno0vate by the rudimentary tools that The Masters had provided for them.

-A case in point was pattern that was starting to form in the tracks of incoming enemy particle beam salvos. Energy bolts probed open areas of space occupied only by projected phantoms. Zentraedi fire control officers and gun crews might not have known that they were shooting at illusions, but they could certainly distinguish between a particle beam bolt that had found solid mass and one that had simply been lost to the great nothingness of space.

Captain Hollenkamp was intent in his study of the enemy's collective firing patterns and was actively engaged with the crew on the captain's bridge to navigate as best as possible around the danger, but both he and Hayes-Hunter knew that with the volume of fire in play that an errant hit was possible if not likely.

"The paint on this bucket is still fresh, Julian", Hayes-Hunter said to the ship's CO, "-Let's try to keep her pretty for a while, okay?"

Understanding the Flag's implied meaning in the statement, Hollenkamp directed his next words to the systems operations division in the CDC.

"Engage barrier system and maximize power to the fire-ward facing grids!"

"Barrier engaging, aye sir!"

"Conn, Sensor.", came the call from the ranking sensorman, "We're detecting a broad rise in BEE levels in the area of the transports. Looks like they're stoking their reactors- probably for a fold-jump."

Hollenkamp replied into the intercom to the senior sensorman presiding over the sensor shack, "Sensor, Conn- aye. Copy that."

A shudder ran through the deck of _SDF-3_ as the barrier sphere of cold-plasma energy surrounding the massive vessel received and absorbed a glancing blow from a particle beam bolt. Obligatory reports from the Sys Ops station reported what Hayes-Hunter and Hollenkamp expected to hear- a minor strike only with negligible effect on overall barrier integrity and no damage to the ship's primary hull.

-But the enemy had landed a blow now allowing them to refine their firing solutions.

And there was _a lot_ of the enemy out there intent on doing just that.

"We're a tougher but bigger target now, Admiral.", Hollenkamp advised, "Suggest we hurry up and get to what we came here for."

To Hayes-Hunter, Hollenkamp sounded uncharacteristically edgy- but understandably so.

The tactical display was showing that the scattering of battle groups beyond the transport formations whose numbers were too great to be covered effectively by the number of guns Hunter-Hayes had brought with her were beginning to coalesce once again into effective combat formations- and those formations were beginning to move in the direction of Doolittle One.

The hunters and their hounds were coming, and _SDF-3_ – _all_ the vessels of the task force element now, actually running with their barrier systems engaged were glowing targets for them. The energy shields generated a distinguishable EM signature that sensor phantoms did not; a distinction that the Zentraedi sensor crews would quickly pick up on.

104 seconds into the engagement with _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_ throwing everything short of their heavy, "main" gun batteries into the fight the enemy combat units were already showing counter-offensive intent, and the softer supply element was indicating that they were on the verge of retreat.

Hayes-Hunter had wanted to endure longer and accomplish more – but it did not require an officer with her experience to sense that the tide was about to turn in the enemy's favor.

"Agreed.", Hayes-Hunter replied to Hollenkamp, "Begin and modify on the go your fold computations to the primary fallback coordinates."

Hollenkamp snapped his fingers in the direction of the Navigation station who had been listening intently for such an order as was expected by the battle plan to be coming around this time anyway.

"Fire Control", Hayes-Hunter said directly to the correct group, "Verify CCDS link with our arsenal ships. Direct Pegasus missile fire from one on the heavies- priority targets are your command ships and destroyers who break into attack sprints. –Sensors, watch for and advise on heavy gun firing sequence activity. If they're following combat area procedures, at least one escort per battle group is running fully charged on their _Ma'Kral_ cannon."

"Conn, Sensor- aye. We're watching."

"Fire Control, dedicate the other arsenal ships to reducing those transports. Weapons free. _Shovel out the hurt-_ I wanna go home _empty_.", Hayes concluded, "Make it happen so we can get the hell out of here!"

"Conn, Fire Control – aye! CCDS link is maintaining bi-directional traffic integrity. _Shoot, Shoot, Shoot!_ "

An interval of 12,000 kilometers had opened between _SDF-3_ and _Rampage_ in lead of the Doolittle One element and the four arsenal ships of the _Thurman_ Class in trail. Forming a staggered battle line,, the minimal gun armaments of the _Arthur, San Juaquin, Gleason,_ and _Karr_ remained silent- their batteries more suited to defend from an unavoidable fight than to instigate one. Their near-featureless hulls, remarkable most for revealing nothing worth of remark hardly gave the vessels the traditional appearance of "warship" – but the appearance was deceiving.

 _San Juaquin_ , second in line of battle, had been like her sisters receiving a flood of fire control data through the InfoLink network established by _SDF-3_. The Collaborative Combat Direction System once enabled aboard both _SDF-3_ and _San Juaquin_ increased the Flagship's available firepower by adding that of the arsenal ship to her own remotely.

Panels, each roughly two meters square, along the dorsal hull of _San Juaquin_ opened to expose the muzzle apertures of vertical launch tubes- each containing a Pegasus Mk-4C ASM. Six VLS "plots", each five rows of 20 tubes were bared with their missiles fully programed and ready for flight by the time the "shoot" order had been given. Mirror plots along the ventral hull were similarly readied to release their equally lethal contents as more conventional lateral-launch tubes along the vessel's flanks stood by for their orders to come through as well.

 _San Juaquin_ was almost instantaneously enveloped in a haze exhaust from the launch motors of 1,200 Pegasus missiles as they left the ship in a single volley whose departure shook the vessel through her frames and main structural members. From the aura of thin, grey smoke surrounding the arsenal ship tendrils of the same vapor sprouted outward at all directions like the chutes of a growing plant captured in time-lapse photography. –Only these growths were not so benign….

 _ **Queado-Magdomilla**_ **Class Command Ship,**

 _ **Gohr'Dhet**_

Action General Mercta'le had run through more emotions and instinctive reactions over the course of minutes than he would have pardoned a novice Warrior wet from the tube for.

Abject boredom had long since set in and had hold on he and his command despite efforts to fill the time with exercises and drill. This had been his state only minutes before.

Then had followed shock, and deep-penetrating terror as the unexpected had taken place and an enemy task force had folded into the edge of weapons' range in a seeming answer to calls to Fate for relief from the dullness of standing without end at the ready.

The panic of comprehending the threat and it being realized moments later as the enemy's attack began was still sharp and deeply penetrating when a sense of elation came that the attackers- incredible as it seemed- included the very object of Supreme General Krymina's quest.

Zor's Battle Fortress was within reach- _Mercta'le's reach_.

He had only to seize it.

Now, as damage reports continued to flood in to the command center from areas of the ship where three powerful micronian missiles had struck, came the different breed of panic and one that was so unique to the circumstances that it was Mercta'le's, and his alone.

"Lord, the battle group is normalizing stations in attack formation.", Mecta'le's executive officer, Trat reported, the evidence visible for the action general on the tactical display projected out above the command deck, "We are on intercept course and will be within optimal firing range in under two minutes-."

"Fire on Zor's vessel is to be restricted to come from this vessel and our principle escorts _only_. All other units are commense fire on the other vessels of the micronian task force now.", Mecta'le ordered, "Is this clear, Trat?.."

The action commander was hesitant, "Very clear, Lord-. However, at this range and with the effectiveness being demonstrated by the enemy's countermeasures effective counter-fire requires broad patterns. It may be difficult to avoid coincidental hits on Zor's vessel with the enemy holding so tight a formation."

"Then _you_ or the commander whose vessel severely damages Zor's Battle Fortress may explain to Supreme General Krymina why she has gone through such effort and has no prize to show for it."

Trat's medium-green complexion blanched two shades as he understood the concern he had seen in his superior's face.

"Your instructions will be conveyed clearly, Lord."

Mecta'le returned his study to the portion of the tactical display containing Zor's ship and what was appearing to be a traitorous _Thuverl Salan_ destroyer- probably a relic from Breetai's campaign against the micronians. Multiple contacts occupied a relatively small area of that space, and Mecta'le was not the fool that the enemy hoped for in believing that all of the contacts were true. Moving behind a concurrent veil of EM energy projected from the true contacts, the false signals did move and have all of the measurable qualities of a vessel- convincing enough to deceive computers coldly arrogant with confidence in their own infallibility.

Mecta'le, perhaps driven by a genuine instinct of self-preservation did not accept all that the tactical display showed him as truth, and in watching the tracks of energy salvos fired that passed through apparitions- he understood the flaw in the deception.

"Weapons Control- sweep the area with rapid fire from all guns bearing. Ignore all signals except impact detonation signatures. Build your firing solutions upon those… And instruct all units to do the same! The micronians are clever, but so am I…"

Trat was at his station within the command bubble passing on an order he felt shame for not conceiving of personally. While striking a veiled and elusive target at long gun ranges based on a firing solution whose foundation was shaky at best was slight, it would only take a single stroke of luck to narrow the firing pattern – and the battle group had into the thousands of guns with which to tally such a stroke. And once Fate's whim began to shift, those same guns were sure to be employed as intended in short order.

-But….

The call of warning had come from the sensor control division and had been audible to Mecta'le as clearly as it had been to Trat. Though because of its threat, Trat felt the need to repeat it.

He could not find voice quickly enough though, and by Mecta'le's posture that slumped ever so slightly it was clear that he saw what was being warned of in the tactical display himself.

From the shifting pattern of images concealing the precise position of the micronian vessels in trail to those that had initiated and pressed the attack, a smaller spanning of smaller contacts steady and true emerged. They had been the same type of contact that had first surprised the units of the 7th Grand Army in its taking of the planetary space around the micronian home world days earlier, and the same kind that had startled the battle groups at rest again only minutes before now.

They were the cunning, unrelenting micronian anti-warship missiles- and Trat and Mecta'le were seeing the track of _hundreds_ of them on a unavoidable intercept course.

An order could have been given- but the missiles were nearly upon them already and even the most urgent and efficient of commands would have reached the ears of the crew on the command deck at just the moment that the first missiles reached the leading screen of the battle group-.

At sub-light speed, the storm of Pegasus missiles moving as a dense cluster rather than the more traditionally conservative pattern of measured waves rolled over the leading destroyers and scout-class vessels of the battle group. Distinct, visible forms of warships whose appearance had terrified countless enemies of The Robotech Masters for generations were obscured and lost in the flash and bloom of both Protex and nuclear warheads.

Destroyers breasting the onslaught were staggered and emerged from detonation blossoms visibly laboring under damage sustained – if they emerged at all. Of the squadron in lead, unrecognizable wreckage tumbled in relative station of formation to the vessels they had been moments before.

Of a force of twenty-four scouts that had held the flanks of this first squadron, little remained to indicate that they had even been there at all.

 _Gohr'Dhet_ bore the brunt of the wave of missiles along the dorsal region of her forward port quarter and along the gracefully slimming line of her flank. Armored primary and secondary hulls were defeated by nearly equal number of penetrating warhead strikes as those that they defended against. Great visible wounds opened to space, evacuating breaths of flame and debris on the force of detonating warheads evacuating atmosphere that carried with it the unrecognizable mortal remains of warriors and crew not incinerated outright in explosions. Deeper wounds, no less grievous but seemingly guarded and concealed by the warship in its own pride penetrated farther into the honeycomb of compartments within the ravaged hull.

More massive and substantial than the destroyers that had acted in futility to defend her, the command ship was not in danger of succumbing immediately to any damage received though. Her shame was not to be immediately followed by a fall.

Mecta'le lifted himself from the deck at the command bubble's right bulkhead. He had been certain moments before that the very deck plates beneath his feet would rattle into liquefaction as the hammer-like blows to his vessel threw him down.

Trat was as quick to recover to his feet but was a horrible sight in that his general, shaken appearance might have been an indication to him of what Mecta'le now looked like.

The appearance would have been warranted however as revealed by the state of the command deck. Crew and technicians rushed from station to station with fire suppression canisters, extinguishing flames that added to the general flicker of battered instruments and work stations that still were trying to come back on line. Power to the deck as seen in the illumination panels along the ceiling came in sudden surges only to ebb to low levels. Cables that had run in secure trunking hung in places, spitting and sputtering sparks from frayed nubs where they had been severed.

All about a whistling of depressurization could be heard, showing how deeply into the vessel the penetrating trauma had ventured- all below the wail of alarms and the piercing cries of those wounded or burned in the secondary effects of the attack.

"- _Do we still have helm and weapons control, Trat?!_ ", Mecta'le demanded, " _Are we still firing?!"_

The tactical and almost all of the other holographic displays that normally provided such information were gone. Bursts of light would flash where they normally hung showing malfunction in the projection systems, or possibly the systems feeding into the projectors- but for the moment the battle group commander's vision was reduced to the dimensions of his own, smashed command deck.

"-We are, Lord!..", Trat replied after an interminable moment of scrambling for the information through is own workstation, "All forward, as well as dorsal and left flank weapons grids are down… And the Ma'Kral cannon is severely damaged… We _are_ firing from other batteries however-."

Mecta'le did not need his the tactical display to remind him of either the enemy's general position or his- he had been stunned, not knocked senseless.

"-The orientation is wrong!.. _Roll the ship left and invert it!.. All batteries engage as they come to bear! And dispatch all remaining destroyers onto a hook attack of the enemy's rear and flank! Divide their attention!"_

"Yes, Lord!", Trat replied dutifully but with no idea of how he was to convey the orders, or if there were any surviving destroyer units in Mecta'le's command out there to receive them….

 _ **SDF-3**_

The CDC quaked steadily now as Zentraedi particle beam bolts found _SDF-3_ 's defensive barrier with regularity. The pronounced tremor added an undertone of metallic clatter to the din of overlapping voices in commission of their duties as deck plates and the equipment anchored to mounts all about the compartment shook within the tolerances allotted to them.

Hayes-Hunter felt in the fleeting moments where her attention was not fully occupied by conduct of the battle a gratitude and admiration for her subordinates around her. Most were veterans of battle already- most in the CDC having served in one form or another on either _SDF-1_ or the briefer operational life of _SDF-2_. These were men and women who _knew_ the risks and dangers of space combat and who had unflinchingly volunteered for Operation Doolittle.

All, like Hays, knew that there was far more potential for things to go wrong in the operation than there was to go right. Still they volunteered, and for reasons that Hayes-Hunter understood without having discussed them with any of the officers or enlisted around her. This battle was as much about reciprocity- _payback_ feeling to be the more appropriate term- for battles of the past lost or not concluded to satisfaction. It was not just about Earth's peril now- it was settling a score for friends and comrades gone but not forgotten by those in the CDC. This was in some part about avenging the fallen on an enemy that had no direct guilt in their fall.

-But purpose in the fight did not cancel out fear.

The constant tremble of the deck gave way to three progressively more violent jolts, stronger than ones that had startled the crew a matter of a few eternal seconds earlier. The ship bucked as particle beam salvos diminished by the ship's cold-plasma protective field penetrated its weakened shell and found _SDF-3_ 's hull.

In that instant, each mind in CDC was brought back to another time and another trauma unique to each. There were grunts and yelps of surprise that were not to be judged or shamed as flashes of the worst fears elicited primal reactions.

" _Damage report, Master Chief!?.._ ", Captain Hollenkamp asked some titan, heavyweight boxer landed two additional jabs on his command that it was using as a punching bag.

"Hits, port side between frames one-seventy-three and two-twelve, decks eight through fourteen… No secondary or pressure hull breeches, Captain, but we have ruptured seals and minor venting from Airlock 197-12, sir.", MCPO Vogel reported, drawing her information from a status display before her and reports from damage control leads passed to her through an intercom headset, "DCT is also reporting power loss and minor pressure venting in Dorsal VLS Room 4-. –Tubes may be fractured down through the pressure hull."

Hollenkamp pointed ardently forward in the general direction of the inert VLS room, "I want those tubes back in the fight _pronto_ , Master Chief! -Systems Control, what's the condition of our barrier?"

"Forward barrier hemisphere integrity is at sixty-nine percent, Captain. Direct hits are beginning to penetrate-."

"-Yes, _we noticed.._ ", Hollenkamp replied, his sarcasm unintentional but understandable.

Hayes-Hunter was sympathetic to the flagship's captain. Hollenkamp's orders from her were to stand and fight an enemy that even after being savaged by the massive Pegasus missile strike from _San Juaquin_ outnumbered him far too heavily tow want to reflect upon.

Still, the main objectives of Task Force: Doolittle One were nearly accomplished.

Arsenal ships _Arthur, Gleason,_ and _Karr_ were engaged now and were systematically executing the phased-launch missile strikes orchestrated by _SDF-3_ 's tactical actions staff through CCDS upon the dissolving formations Zentraedi transport ships.

The CDC's main tactical display was showing Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter the rapidly escalating panic of the Zentraedi transport commanders. Not designed to be either agile or quickly fleet of foot, the _Quiltra Quelena_ Class landing ships did not enjoy those characteristics now in their flight, nor did they even display the cohesion of a herd of spooked cattle as their retreat from very real danger continued its choppy course.

Under broad waves of Pegasus missiles fired for maximum effect on plentiful targets of tactically equal value, the transports in the lee of the formation fared best. Able to easily break from the formations whose intent of providing them individually safety in numbers, these fortunate vessels and crews were able to distance themselves from the building mass-carnage, most opening the required regulation range to execute fold jumps away.

Windward of the calculated pulverization of the supply force, transports were largely having a different experience. Pegasus missiles raked the tiers of box formations along their exterior, distributing damage across as many vessels as possible. The ASMs, programmable to strike at specific areas of known vessel types drove their warheads into the spaces occupied by propulsion as well as the larger cargo holds. Transports having powered up and initiated the maneuvering of escape found themselves rapidly adrift carried by their own inertia. Many of these vessels having been struck repeatedly in their storage spaces also, found their uncontrolled movements worsened by massive venting from the gaping holes punched through their hulls and the subsequent internal secondary explosions and instability caused by displaced and shifting cargo loads.

Undamaged transports attempting to flee for open space sufficient to execute spacefold found disabled sister-ships in their paths spilling their war-store entrails in great debris clouds, or they themselves found themselves in the uncontrolled paths of the crippled. Fate and skill benefitted many, allowing for near misses while other vessels collided in catastrophic meetings that were ominously silent to the exterior world.

As subsequent waves of Pegasus missiles now enveloping from all sides penetrated more deeply into the transport formations- transport commanders began to abandon the disciplines of convoy mentality. Aware that they had no sanctuary at the heart of a formation of hundreds of other transports, some commanders elected to execute folds from the convoy stations they kept.

First a few, and then by the scores they began to jump- buffeting those nearest to them in realspace with the localized but jarring effects of subspace displacement and endangering the safe hyperspace transit of one another by affecting the regional gravitational forces in ways that their navigational computers had not and could not have anticipated.

Admiral Hayes-Hunter watched the Zentraedi transport force continue to dissolve in near real time- the delay of seconds attributable only to the range between the events being represented within the CDC's tactical display and the sensors capturing them for report. Debris and battle-flotsam as well as the subspace anomalies caused by the increasing number of fold-jumps in the general area of the enemy was making scaled recreation less distinct and less accurate- an inevitable side-effect of large scale space warfare.

-But as the ebbing Pegasus missile attack continued on increasingly fleeing targets, a crystal clear image of the enemy'[s condition was not required.

They were smashed, Hayes-Hunter knew- morally if not utterly- and as a result the War was no longer going to simply be about the seizure and control of Earth, or the pursuit of a thing that no longer existed in the form that the enemy sought it, or anything tangible.

The War, Hayes-Hunter knew, was now to get _ugly_ as only a grudge match could.

-And it was starting already.

As barrier-penetrating salvos struck hull with greater frequency and strength, the task force commander knew beyond argument that she and the handful of vessels under her immediate charge were teetering on the verge. The enemy's shock was now worn off and the honed minds of experienced combatants were now clicking in unison to the playbook that had served the Zentraedi for generations.

They were the brutish, bulldozer tactics born of disposable multitudes with which to execute them – and for all of Doolittle One's technological advantages, the Zentraedi battle doctrine insurmountable once in motion.

-And like a tsunami of objective-driven war machines, _they were in motion…_

"Conn, Sensors-. Multiple Master contacts in reduced battle squadron elements are enveloping and closing on-."

A particularly violent jolt shook the CDC from a square hit to the main hull somewhere just forward of _SDF-3_ 's superstructure.

Hayes-Hunter, having not lost visual track on the warship escorts to the transport vessels in the tactical display cut the senior sensorman short.

"We see them!", the Flag snapped under the weight of the moment.

Conveyed through the tactical display, the battle groups had broken down to combined squadron sized elements, dispersing as to not present any one target for concentrated gunfire or for the "heavy" battery the enemy was certainly aware that _Rampage_ possessed, and likely the one they certainly suspected _SDF-3_ of possessing.

Instead their closing on multiple, broad lines demanded a division of the two REF vessels' firepower while allowing the Zentraedi commanders to combine and concentrate theirs.

Hayes-Hunter, charged with conduct of the greater fight was nonetheless fully aware of _SDF-3_ 's degrading condition through Captain Hollenkamp's exchanges with his staff. The pressure hull had now been penetrated in over a dozen places, three of them penetrating several decks and compartments into the ship's interior. Damage control teams were fighting multiple fires that were not yet under control, and the ship's sick bay was receiving litter bearers carrying the first wounded in the butcher's bill tally.

"Julian", Hayes-Hunter said, feeling the calm of promised safety some over her as only orders as the one she was about to give provided, "Spin up the fold system and sync the jump clock with _Rampage_ and the arsenal ships-. We're done here."

The final wave of Pegasus Mk-4C missiles was outbound from the now-emptied arsenal ships and seconds away from intercepting the dwindling number of transport ships that were leaping away from the battlespace as quickly as their navigational computers could calculate spacefold designs for execution. The tactical display glittered with the flicker of their departures like the gaudiest exaggeration of a department store's Christmas window display – but was not quite the distraction enough to allow new arrivals to slip attention.

The cluster of new contacts, immediately indefinite in both number and precise range and bearing as indicated by the pulsating nature of their icons in the tactical display nonetheless had not been missed by _SDF-3_ 's sensor division and were immediately under analysis.

"Conn, Sensor-. New contacts Sierra-Papa… -Cancel that, _shit!- Designate Master 1202!- Definite Nupetiet-Vernitzs Class-. It's their goddamn Flagship, Admiral, and about two dozen plus destroyers!.."_

Abandoned reporting protocols notwithstanding, Hayes-Hunter was in possession now of the critical elements that the senior sensorman was attempting to convey. The extreme danger that Doolittle One had been swimming in moments before was now multiplied by orders of magnitude.

"Comms", Hayes-Hunter ordered, recognizing that the improbable moment she had doubted but that Breetai had predicted with a degree of certainty that had forced her to reconsider had arrived, "Execute PSYWAR-OP Breetai and broadcast it loud and clear. CCDS Director, concentrate fire on that flagship… – _And Julien, get us the hell out of here!…."_

The Zentraedi battle group elements with whom Doolittle One had initiated the fight and that had been closing on the counterattack in shrewdly dispersed, combined squadrons when the alien flagship and its escorts had arrived now found themselves in the "no man's land" of empty space between ardent adversaries. A broad opening fusillade of salvos from their flagship and its escorts while not directed at two of the attacking squadrons did pass sufficiently close to inspire immediate course adjustments.

"CDC, Sensor- Multiple high energy transients bearing there-three-nine mark seven-one. Spikes in the ultra-high EM and BEE bands Admiral-. _Multiple Ma'Kral cannons initiating firing sequence!_ "

" _Helm- Quartermaster's and helmsman's discretion- keep their fire control baffled!"_ , Hollenkamp ordered to the crew of the captain's bridge who monitored the CDC via intercom, "Countermeasures,, deploy decoys in mass- turn us into _a fleet!_..."

 _Thirty seconds._

This incredibly brief span of time dominated Hayes-Hunter's thinking as the CDC bucked and shook about her with another enemy salvo that had found _SDF-3_ 's hull through her weakening barrier field.

Thirty seconds was the time required for a Zentraedi warship's _Ma'Kral_ main battery to power up to the final charge required to fire. The commitment to fire also slaved the ship's helm in the final critical seconds before discharge as the immensely powerful particle beam weapon was in essence the largest bore-sighted gun ever mounted to a platform.

If Hayes-Hunter's intent had been to stand her ground and fight, the window of precious seconds available to her when the enemy would be locked on a steady course and speed- making it as close to an "easy target" as space warfare afforded- was almost at hand.

Her intent was not however to pursue a fool's exercise in hubris. Her flagship's barrier integrity had now dropped below the 50% level, meaning that at most the blows from the enemy's increasingly accurate fire was only softened and not absorbed. Her battery captains did not even have the luxury of being able to dedicate themselves to a single target but were rather forced by the enemy's numbers to divide their attention between multiple ones. Even _SDF-3_ 's twin, main Reflex batteries were impotent in the context of the battle that had evolved for the same tactical disadvantages that her numerically superior opponents were willing to accept.

It was time to go, and _SDF-3_ could accomplish that within the thirty second clock the enemy had set for her by default.

"CDC, Sensors-.", the senior sensorman said intrusively, but with concern that warranted curiosity from Hayes-Hunter, "High-order secondary detonations detected from _Rampage'_ s bearing- _definitely_ originating from her-."

Hayes-Hunter had not forgotten the refitted Zentraedi destroyer's presence as part of Doolittle One, but in the concluding offensive effort, her awareness was heavily elsewhere until this moment.

The tactical display showed clearly _Rampage'_ s track through an enveloping barrage of fire much as _SDF-3_ and the arsenal ships were also enduring. Different from any of the other five vessels in the mission element though, _Rampage_ was no longer throwing radical "zig-zag" course changes to blunt the enemy's firing solutions on her- she was now traveling in a straight line.

"She's adrift.", Hollenkamp noted, voicing what was obvious to all around the tactical display.

"-And her barrier is down, Admiral-.", MCPO Vogel added as the tracks of enemy salvos lost their chaotic spread in all directions and began to zero in on the crippled REF warship.

"-Admiral?..", Hollenkamp said, more suggesting a course of action than a request for direction.

"What's the count if we close to bring _Rampage_ within our fold sphere?", Hayes-Hunter replied.

"Twenty-five seconds", Hollenkamp said, "Plus five on the outside of their time to shoot."

Hayes-Hunter clenched her teeth, knowing the foolishness of the course she was electing to follow, "- _Do it… -And deploy the comms-relay booy!_ "

 _ **Artoc**_

The moment that the report had reached _Artoc_ that a micronian surprise counterattack had been initiated out beyond the secured space immediately around the alien homeworld held by The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl on the heavily guarded but still softer target of one of the supply groups, the atmosphere on the command deck had changed. It had gone instantaneously from a common sense of uneasy victory caveated by the fact that the alien fleet had escaped largely intact, to rage in the realization that the first return blow from the micronians had been thrown and landed far sooner than was expected in the "worst case" scenario.

As common with all aspects of a Zentraedi command, the change in The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl had its headwaters in Supreme General Krymina- and it was her progressively darkening mood change that had Sub-General Caldettas most concerned.

It had not been a snap-decision, but one certainly made without benefits of all of the facts in which Krymina had ordered _Artoc'_ s jump to the area of attack with its dedicated escort squadrons. While not charging into the fight blind, it did present many unknown tactical variables that could have had dire consequences for a ship even as powerful as _Artoc_ and even with the finest of the destroyer squadrons supporting.

–And it still could.

Most troubling to Caldettas had been bearing witness to the shift in Krymina.

After all, it had been she who had quietly bided her time in secret to even the confidence of her executive officer, waiting patiently for the moment when the declining Robotech Masters had appeared most ready for a final fall.

It had been Krymina who had most immediately recognized the opportunity afforded by the power void to accomplish for The Te'Dak Tohl more than independence in snatching this world and Zor's accumulated knowledge incarnate in his wayward vessel- and it had been she who had assembled the force to realize it all.

But Caldettas _knew_ Krymina as well as and better than any officer in her service would reasonably claim to, and he knew her demeanor when in calculation.

And _this_ was not the Krymina he was sharing the flagship's command bubble with now.

At the moment of the counterattack's report, she had become someone else as alien to Caldettas as the micronians they had rushed to engage.

And witness to a Zentraedi force mauled in mere minutes, and with the audio transmission received- unmistakably Breetai's voice and words both- there had been a welling up of primal attributes from that deep place where most kept their Warrior's Core.

It governed Krymina at this moment, governing by extension them all- and there would be no reasoning with it.

"Liege, he was clearly baiting you and may yet have a snare laid for us that he wishes you to trip.", Caldettas warned dutifully though not without the unexpected and uncommon fear of violent reprisal that manifested in the raising of a fine sheen of sweat that the executive officer hoped would pass as circumstantial to greater events.

"-The message was audio only and vague in its details at best. My impression is that Breetai is not-…"

"- _Not even aboard Zor's ship._ ", a voice emanating from Supreme General Krymina, but _not_ Krymina's as Caldettas had ever known it interrupted- completing the executive officer's thought perfectly.

Krymina studied the tactical display floating before her, out above the now frenzied stations of the command deck. Caldettas could see the analytical and tactical mental processes working smoothly, but it was something other than simple victory driving them now.

"That micronian destroyer- it's disabled.", Krymina observed without report from her staff, "Zor's ship is altering course to assist-. Disable the Battle Fortress as well-. We'll extract the information we need about Breetai from their crews once we have them."

Caldettas whose attention had followed Krymina's words to the tactical display witnessed the altering of Zor's ship's course in the company of the insubstantial phantoms screening it as though it had taken direction from the supreme general and had not been merely mirroring her prediction. Zor's ship _was_ going to the aid of the disabled norghil destroyer and drawing an increasing volume of fire in doing so. The phantoms continued to take fire in mass as well, warning that gun crews were still in the mode of firing indiscriminately in the vicinity of an irreplaceable element of Supreme General Krymina's long-term objectives.

" _Mind your fire!_ ", Caldettas barked with uncharacteristic animation as he sensed the weapons directors were unaware of the peril they were placing themselves in, "That ship is to be _disabled!_ There will be severe consequences to anyone doing more!"

 _ **SDF-3**_

Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter felt relief for the crews of the _Arthur, Gleason, Karr,_ and _San Juaquin_ as in rapid succession they vanished into fold individually. All had sustained damage- _Karr_ more than a remarkably frail looking vessel as the arsenal ship was seemed capable of sustaining- but they were clear now and in seconds would arrive at the rendezvous point to await _Rampage_ and _SDF-3._

Hayes-Hunter's relief for their crews was muted somewhat by the increasing odds against the assumption that _Rampage_ and _SDF-3 would_ be joining the arsenal ships.

 _SDF-3_ 's barrier was pulverized and now only minimally effective against the constant enfilade of Zentraedi particle beams- analogous to the value of a mosquito screen made of fishing nets.

Among other compartments opened by penetrating energy bolts, Hangar #1-Port had been compromised with complete, explosive decompression and untold amounts of internal damage.

As this operation had not involved a component requiring a fighter presence, the fighter wing including all of its support staff had been left behind aboard Walhalla. Easily a hundred lives, if not more, had been spared by the absence of that portion of the crew at the time of the hangar's decompression.

Significantly less important than lives, but still a moral blow if the damage had caused its loss- Rick's semi-retired _Skull One_ had been secured in one of the hangar's "bull pens" – aboard primarily as a good-luck charm, insisted upon by Rick with the notion that the Valkyrie too had history back to the beginning with Zentraedi aggressors.

Hayes-Hunter had no mental slack with which to concern herself on the loss of a single Veritech, but the prospect of facing Rick and reporting _Skull One_ 's loss- essentially the loss of the last part of Folker remaining…. This thought she did not relish.

"Fold-Ops, keep me cheerful!", Hollenkamp demanded as a blow somewhere aft but near caused a flutter in the ship's lighting.

"Fold profile is in progressive update, Captain! -Can't promise to thread the needle, but give the word and we'll put you in the neighborhood of the rendezvous point!.."

"Good enough for me.", Hollenkamp said as the ship took a hit that seemed to cause her to skid slightly to starboard despite the inertial dampening systems being in play.

"-Good enough for me too.", Hayes-Hunter added without solicitation.

"Plot- time to _Rampage,_ on this track?", Hollenkamp asked as the space between the two representative icons in the tactical display continued to shrink rapidly.

"Ten seconds, this course and speed sir!"

Hollenkamp issued his orders to the CDC and bridge in general, calling it like a college football coach forced to improvise a play.

"-SysOps, FoldOps- we're going to need to drop the barrier to jump the ship. Drop the screens on my hack, plus two seconds and execute fold. Don't sing it out to me, just make it happen! -Got that?.."

"Aye sir", was repeated in reply from the two stations identified by the CO.

Alternating his attention between the tactical display and the ship's chronometer, Hollenkamp was startled to see both that the moment of execution was less than five seconds away, and that the discharging of Ma'Kral cannons had begun.

Oddly, the beam tracks in the tactical display were showing that the enemy's aim was off-. _Off_ to the degree of being _intentionally off._ While the enemy's less powerful gun batteries were still administering a beating on _SDF-3_ – Hollenkamp entertained the thought that the object was not her immediate destruction.

There was something more disquieting about that thought.

"-In five…", the CO counted down in sync with the ship's chronometer, "Four… Three… Two… One… _Hack!.._ "

 _ **Artoc**_

The flashing orb within the tactical display continued to pulse through several refresh cycles of the holographic image before vanishing- taking with it the icons that had represented toe seditious norghil destroyer and Zor's Battle Fortress. The streaking tracks of heavy gunfire subsided at nearly the same moment, the object of their fury now decidedly out of reach.

Caldettas remained silent, there was no need to announce what had happened to Krymina when she had been two paces away from him and studying the same tactical display when it had happened. He did however make his best effort to appear ready to execute any order given him. At this moment, it was all that could be done.

Curiously, there was no outraged explosion from Krymina as she was left to behold a tactical display filled with nothing but damaged, disabled, and destroyed ships of her own fleet. It was as though dirt had been kicked over a bivouac fire, extinguishing the flames instantly.

"Signal all units to heightened alert around the micronian homeworld. Breetai may not have commanded this attack, but he conceived it. This is not finished yet."

Krymina was crossing the command bubble threshold out before Caldettas could manage to complete, "As you order, Liege."

The flames were out, but as with a smothered fire- the heat remained just beneath the surface.

 **RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain**

Somehow in the way that those who had need to know found out, it had come to Pamela Dunn's attention that the maintenance door to the post laundry room servicing a number of the Bachelor Officers Quarters did not lock properly and with the right _persuasion_ could be forced without damage to door or lock. The same knowledge floating through the ether came attached to the wisdom that should one feel the need to find refuge in said laundry room after duty hours, the chances of being discovered and put on report by the post's MPs was significantly reduced if an offering of cigarettes, alcohol vouchers, or cash was left outside the door.

And sure enough, it all appeared to be true.

A bed of shrink-wrapped bed linens with a couple of standard issue, summer-weight synthetic fiber blankets made for an appropriate "love nest" under the situationally appropriate mood lighting provided by the dull, red glow of a nearby emergency exit sign. The couple had not been particularly interested in romantic _ambiance_ as they had on simple seclusion- so there were no complaints to be had.

"-You have very fine chest hair-.", Pamela noted in that distant and content tone of post-coital conversation.

Andy watched her fingers trace near to his right nipple that he hoped she would not gain a sudden, playful interest in as the sensitivity of his nerve endings were still dialed-up to 11.

"Five hours of PT a day-. I _finally_ grow out of my ten-year old's pectorals- and you get hung up on the fact that I'm _harless_?.."

"You're not _hairless_ -.", Pamela laughed, giving Andy's head a gentle shove to break his accusatory gaze, "-It just hasn't grown in yet. –Makes me feel like I've plucked you away from mummy-. _Soooo naughty_ -. _I think I like that_."

Andy realized that an opportunity for an impromptu "rematch" was probably being missed, but Pamela's maternal references conjured an unexpectedly vivid mental image of his mother in one of her notoriously floral house dresses – and any possibility of further romantic activity this late night went right out the window.

"You know your nipples are crooked, don't you?"

There was a loud smack of a bare palm on taut flesh and Andy felt the sting of playful retribution spread across his chest/

" _Are not!.._ ", Pamela protested, putting her head back onto his shoulder.

"Are too-.", Andy replied, not surrendering an inch of ground, "They come up off your boobs all cock-eyed and such-. I'm never sure who they're looking at. It's kind of rude, really- all things considered. "

"-Well", Pamela replied, propping herself up onto an elbow, "We can make it so you don't have to experience that social awkwardness again…"

"No-.", Andy said, more of a panicked edge to his voice than he expected, "-It's hot somehow. Don't change on my account."

"Good save."

"Thanks. –But they are crooked."

Another loud smack in the low, dingy-red light.

" _You ever wonder why?.."_ , Andy asked after a few moments of silence.

"Are you still on about my wall-eyed boobs?"

" _No._ ", Andy replied, having thought he had successfully backed away from that abyssal precipice, "I mean the aliens-. The Zentraedi and The Robotech Masters-. Have you ever wondered what's in it for them?"

" _Oh God- you're one of those._ ", Pamela groaned.

"One of what?"

"Those _philosophical after sex_ types.", Pamela said in woeful speculation, "-Give the pipes a good clearing and they become Socrates or something… Can't you just grunt and tell a girl what a nice bum she's got like everyone else?"

"- _I was just sharing a thought…"_

Pamela settled in as though for a drawn out exchange, " _Fine-._ Go on then, _Descartes_ …"

"Well, I don't want to _now_ if you're going to be that way about it-."

" _Postulation performance anxiety_? -I hear Kant got that _real bad_ …"

" _You are a vicious bitch-_ with a nice bum.", Andy snapped, "You know that, don't you?"

"That's what a girl likes to here. Wear. –Were you going to share a deep thought, or something there, Plato?.."

"Maybe not _deep_ , but-.", Andy said cautiously resuming the thought that somehow had still stayed with him, "What do you think the point is for them?"

"The Zentraedi or The Masters?"

"-At least you're in the conversation now-. Either, both, _whatever_ -."

"Universal domination- I thought that was pretty clear."

"Yeah-.", Andy said, cautious in that he expected a quickly rendered comparison to another dead philosopher, "-But _why?_ I mean, what then? Let's say you conquered the _whole universe_ -. What would you do with it then? My da's got a company with about a thousand employees more or less, and the headaches of running that nearly kills him. Imagine running the universe. What do you do with the whole universe anyway? That seems like an awful lot of work."

"What would I do?", Pamela replied sounding less dedicated to the mental exercise than Andy.

"Yeah, what would you do?", Andy asked knowing that a meaningful exchange was probably not in his near future.

"Shoes."

"What?"

Sober and serious, Pamela locked eyes with him and repeated, " _Shoes_."

"You'd buy shoes?"

" _No_ -.", Pamela corrected, "-I'd force the leaders of all of the worlds to bring me their most fashionable women's shoes to choose from as yearly tribute. We'd then celebrate with a feast lit by bonfires where all of the other women's shoes would be burned- except for _maybe_ clogs…"

"-Either you've thought about this _way too much,_ or you're some new sub-category of sociopath…"

"A little of both.", Pamela admitted, "-But you've never had to be at a party and discover someone else was wearing the same shoes as you. I should think that would fix the problem, and _that's_ just grounds for universal conquest."

" _You are twisted._ ", Andy said, adding, "-But with a nice bum."

"That's what they all tell me."

Andy hesitated, and then asked, "Who's _all?_ "

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?..."

940


	12. Sandcastles Before the Tide

**Chapter Eleven**

 **Sandcastles Before the Tide**

"-And then comes a moment when the character of the War becomes crystal clear…"

"So it's to be _that way…_ A War not between armies, but civilizations- wherever the two may meet and by _any_ means necessary. It will be as without reservations on both sides as it is without mercy."

"History will hate me- but _I can fight that War…_ "

General Marcus Merrill Leonard

 **Yellowstone City**

"-The doctors said you were getting _fidgety_ ma'am, and that either you needed a distraction or they were going to have to up your morphine drip. –I guess _distraction_ is easier on the medical supplies-."

Weitzel had with some difficulty raised herself into a seated position for the purpose of being distracted- and _oh, how the Marines had delivered..._

Major Pultz, whom she had met the day before by way of Pultz taking roll of the known surviving military for purposes of establishing an improvised chain of command, had been all too happy to accept a request that could be performed as he and his Marines reconnoitered the sagging shambles of the capital city. Now the first fruits of that effort were in Weitzel's hands courtesy of the Marines and a computer tablet loaned temporarily to her by the field hospital's nursing staff.

"Sorry if we didn't get their good sides- I don't think dittos have one.", Pultz mused, "But we did get a good sampling of the recent guests to our fair city-."

All the while Pultz was speaking, Weitzel was swiping through digital photo after digital photo of Zentraedi mecha and to a lesser extent, dismounted Zentraedi- some even higher in the enemy's chain than the standard rank-and-file. Perhaps one image in twenty was of any real interest and warranting more than a quick glance- but as Weitzel knew, in intelligence _all_ of the puzzle pieces had to be examined before one could even begin to determine what had a place in the final picture.

"This is a start, Major.", Weitzel said, noticing the throb beginning to grow in her leg stump as the blood began to pool nearer to the amputation site. Her energy was showing the first signs of fading also- preserved some by the cathartic qualities of meaningful activity.

"Glad to hear it.", the balding Marine officer replied, "Because truth be known, we're logistics- not intel. We could'a been taking pictures of the local, ditto glee club for all we knew. –I guess maybe I should've paid a little more attention in those basic Zentraedi language courses. –Hell, I can't even remember how many characters there are in their damn alphabet!"

Weitzel understood the major's meaning. A large number of the photos taken by junior Marines at their superior's orders contained captures of Zentraedi glyphs stenciled on the hulls of mecha or warriors' body armor. The Marines were astute enough to understand that individuals' faces meant little at this point- but an understanding of unit affiliations was of some value.

These were the puzzle pieces that Weitzel had to work with – for now.

"Thirty-one.", Weitzel said, responding initially to Pultz's admission of academic sloth in the area of xenolinguisitcs, "-There are thirty-one characters in the Tirolian _phonetic_ alphabet, not including tense and punctuation symbols. –That of course doesn't include the _thousands_ of symbolic glyphs also used in the pure Tirolian language and Zentraedi dialect- _sort of like Chinese or Japanese.._."

A glance up told Weitzel that her tangent was not only asserting itself into the main topic, but threatening to lose its audience.

" –But no shame, Major- language isn't my thing either. What about comms gear and computers to start cataloging and collating information we're bringing in?"

Pultz shifted his weight uneasily, "Well, comms gear of the field variety is a little hard to come by at military HQ, believe it or not. Computers, we've found plenty of them- but finding one that's not damaged in one way or another is a taller order…"

"..Robotech Defense Forces Headquarters with a staff of twenty-three thousand a stone's throw away, _and you can't find a single military technician or contractor who can crack open a computer to repair it?.."_

"-Well", Pultz said hesitantly, "that would invalidate the warrantee on Government equipment, Commander.."

Weitzel wasn't certain whether she actually felt her jaw fall into her lap, but she was certain it had.

Pultz's Marine-stoic expression cracked and he had to stifle a laugh, "Sorry, ma'am-. _Yes_ , we're scrounging parts for systems that aren't functioning and affecting repairs. –A few of my Marines knew some of the IT support staff socially, and they knew people-… In short, we have our own team of _geek commandos_ at work and should have more than enough processing power and a LAN for it to ride on to do anything you want."

" _Very admirable of them to kick in_ …", Weitzel said drolly.

"We're paying in rations and protection, ma'am- _once a contractor, always a contractor._ ", Pultz corrected, and then added, "– _Electrical power_ is going to be a challenge though. This field hospital doesn't have much spare capacity, ma'am."

"-All problems, Major…", Weitzel admitted with a note of sympathy as she reached the end of the looping series of photographs and began to go through a second time.

A symbol- not a glyph, but an emblem of some sort that she was unfamiliar with stood out as she began the second cycle through the series of photos. She had noticed it going through the first time just before the halfway mark of the accumulated images. Now having seen it and it having snagged her attention, she found it in every image- on mecha and on body armor-. It was unremarkable in and of itself, a standard Zentraedi Chevron with an eye of all blue crossing the center and staring outward with a penetrating gaze that somehow carried a chilling effect on the nerves.

It was a piece that Weitzel's intuition said was part of the greater, signficant puzzle, and one to be filed in the front of the mental file cabinet's top drawer.

"-Fortunately for me", Weitzel continued in her remark to Pultz, having been in silent contemplation of the emblem for how long she knew not, "I have _Marines_ to get it done. Word has it that real-world problem solving is your bread and butter."

" _Hoorah_ , ma'am.", Pultz affirmed with the traditional, all-meaning, Marine utterance.

The throbbing in Weitzel's leg stump was no to the point of becoming a distraction, and a concern to the commander with no medical expertise that she might somehow re-open the surgical wound. She eased herself back onto the cot in a fully reclined position, setting the tablet on the bedside with the intent of returning to it as soon as the prominent ache of her leg no longer clouded her thinking.

"We're going to need a base of operations – we're going to outstay our welcome here but double-quick if we go and turn it into a bastard situation room. We're going to need an inconspicuous place to set up with room for IT and comms equipment, an independent power supply, and personnel- and it's going to have to operate right under the Zentraedi's noses without them taking notice- assuming they're going to stick around for a while… -Is that enough to keep you busy, Major?"

"-Idle hands, ma'am…", Pultz replied by way of allusion to the old proverb, "We'll get it done."

Weitzel felt her energy deserting her like mercenaries from a losing battle, but this was okay. Gains had been made here.

"-Two more things, Major."

"Ma'am?"

"First- I want your Marines _out of uniform_ when they're on the scrounge. If we're looking at the dittos, you can be damn sure that there are a few bright bulbs on their string looking at us. I want zero evidence of organized military activity for them to zero-in on, _comprendé_?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am.", Pultz replied with a hint of hesitance at abandoning the uniform, but clearly understanding the mandate.

"-And second", Weitzel continued, finding the best image of the emblem she had noticed on the tablet and in showing it to Pultz, said, " _-This-_. I don't need more photos, but I want eyeballs taking tally. How common is this emblem on enemy mecha and gear? -Like a mesa-shaped heap of mashed potatoes, _this means something_."

" _Hoorah_ , ma'am."

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Bristol**_

 _Attack from out of the sun._

It was arguably the most venerable and enduring tactics in air, or in this case _space_ combat. It had probably been conceived during one of the earliest aerial shooting match fought from wood and canvas bi-planes and using pistols like gentlemen of old: the notion of placing the sun _behind_ one's self and in doing so concealing one's presence or actions from one's enemy.

The modification of defensive tactics, advent of radar and then later multi-spectral sensor systems had of course had an impact on attacking from the sun- but the core concept itself had lived on in various evolutions and incarnations. A true classic, it would continue to be adapted and would almost certainly live on to be used by the knights and warlords of air and space for generations to come.

Right now, it was Commodore Vu Tran's tactic, and as sure as gravity it was working reliably.

"Doolittle Two" built around Tran's four corvette carriers and the twelve frigates attached to them had arrived by spacefold to a position just within Venus's orbital path, but with enough of Sol's mass between them and Earth to mask the distinctive subspace displacement ripples caused by de-fold from enemy sensors. A calculated and measured burst of thrust from the ships of the task force element leveraged against the gravitational pull of the sun had carried them around the yellow star and released them intentionally adrift on a path directly toward home.

Afloat in the energy-charged current of Sol's solar wind and emitting minimal EM signatures and no subspace displacement signatures associated with their main propulsion systems, Doolittle Two was nearly invisible to all but the keenest sensor technician's eye intently analyzing the highly interpretable output on an output screen- if such eyes were monitoring.

Doolittle Two's attack plan in execution was as stealthy as tactics and technology would allow.

"Forty-five seconds from corvette separation point, Commodore.", Captain Holt, the _Bristol'_ s commanding officer advised.

It was more than a point on a running operational clock that Holt was noting, but a heightened moment of potential danger. When stowed for transport, each of the _Bristol_ Class carrier's twelve _Garfish_ Class attack corvettes was contained in a docking niche along the carrier's flanks and ventral hull, and concealed behind doors. Besides providing protection to the carrier's complement of corvettes, the concealment reduced the energy-reflective surface area and in turn reduced the carrier's overall sensor cross-section, or "footprint".

Launching the corvettes meant the required violation of so much carefully designed sensor-thwarting engineering as the storage niches had to be opened for the smaller attack ships to be "swung out".

So was the nature of the hunt. Even the most powerful predator always exposed itself to moments of peril from its intended prey.

"Forty-five seconds.", Tran repeated, " _A brief eternity…_ "

"It feels that way, doesn't it, sir?", Holt agreed.

Tran gave a grunt of concurrence as both officers pored over the evolving image of the operational area on the CDC's main tactical display.

With Venus's orbital path falling well astern now and Earth growing ever nearer, _Bristol_ and the other vessels of Doolittle Two were still a victim of the same EM interference from Sol that was providing them cover to move by from the enemy's passive sensors.

Well trained sensormen using the latest passive receiver technology and filtering algorithm software available were able to see well enough through the sun's energy veil to determine _rough_ numbers and positions of enemy vessels at varying orbital levels around Earth. –And even now, a week into the war and with the intelligence reports of large numbers of enemy vessels moving out of the system- the numbers were still daunting at a glance to the commanding officer of the task force.

Tran felt like a flea determined to bring down the hound and had to remind himself that his mission was only to _bite._

-And of course to leave certain strategically critical mementos of the visit home behind…

"Flag, Comms", called out the communications officer within the CDC's crowded space, "Subspace UHF signal from Doolittle One, Commodore. _SDF-3_ has engaged her objective."

"Understood, Sparks.", Tran replied.

Gazing through the hologram-rendered space of the tactical display between them, Captain Holt shook his head with grim expectation and said to his superior, "The calm around here is going to thaw quickly."

Tran knew this to be true, _expected_ it to be true, and from a position of desiring tactical superiority in the fight about to ensue- _wanted_ it to be true. Whether it was true calm or the forced calm felt in knowing that the calm could not last, the Zentraedi fleet in layered orbit around Earth appeared within the tactical display's limitations to display it to be at rest.

"The enemy's chaos is our friend.", Tran observed, then resolved, "Let it come."

Lieutenant Commander Myles Kenner had always wanted to be a fighter pilot, and with a little imagination it could be argued that he was.

His "fighter", the _Eager Beaver_ , was a _Garfish_ Class attack corvette weighing just above a thousand metric tons though and was crewed by twelve officers and NCOs. Within the split-level command center, Kenner, the commander, his co-pilot Lieutenant Boyle, the navigator, three sensormen, and three WSOs were seated much like fighter jocks in their cockpits surrounded by their instruments and controls – but the sense of one-on-one combat against the enemy was understandably elusive.

Between the nine personnel required to fully crew "the cockpit" of the ship and the three flight engineers situated in their own engine and systems control center just below and aft of the cramped bunkroom, mess, and lavatory that enabled the corvette to operate autonomously of its mothership for up to a week at a time if needed – the _Eager Beaver_ was more unlike a fighter in that she depended on seamless cooperation between her crew and less on aggressive, independent action.

Still, with imagination _Eager Beaver_ could _feel_ like a fighter in some respects.

She, like the others of her class, were sleek and spearhead-like in general appearance with her racing lines and beauty diminished only by the necessity of her sensor proboscis that gave her forerunners a similar look to the fish for which the first of the class was named. She was faster than any other element of the Fleet and able to leave even the fastest destroyers or capital ships easily in her wake- so long as the measurement of "speed" was restricted to conventional, subspace propulsion. For the great leaps of cosmic distance, she was wholly dependent upon her mothership and lacked the endurance to independently venture far beyond the boundaries of a star system.

 _Eager Beaver'_ s "short legs" (speaking in warship terms) not withstanding, she was comparable to a fighter in the critical aspect that she was armed to the very sharp teeth for her intended prey.

The original _Garfish_ corvette design had featured a ventral hull-mounted, rudimentary fighter hangar consisting of six independent bays in two stacked rows that had allowed launch forward along the hull centerline and recovery aft. When adapted to the role of an _attack ship_ , the corvette had no longer required the ability to carry fighters for scouting and limited offensive/defensive actions but had retained the hangar structure that was reconfigured as a static tube launcher for 40 Pegasus Mk-4C ASMs forward, and with mine-deploying gear aft. –This gave _Eager Beaver_ offensive "reach" comparable to any capital ship in the Fleet.

With internally housed, bow rotary launchers and static dorsal and flank launch tubes for the shorter-ranged Ballista ASM, the attack corvettes rounded out their offensive capabilities having even retained the Mk-19 laser cannon tri-gun turret mounted beneath her Pegasus missile launcher- a fixture of the original _Garfish_. Intimidating as the gun's brutish appearance was, its utility was limited to actions against only the smallest of enemy vessels as no sane corvette crewman sought a gun duel with the enemy's "heavies".

Still, the _Garfish_ Attack Corvette's anti-warship arsenal coupled with its impressive sub-light speed made _Eager Beaver_ ideally suited to close on larger targets in greater numbers, strike, and then break contact on her terms.

Perhaps the vessel was not the fighter that Kenner had always wanted, but certainly it was something akin to an _interceptor_.

-Or so said the concept.

Now it was time to test that concept.

"Wolf Pack, Alpha Wolf- thirty seconds to deployment. Initiating separation sequence.", came the advisory from _Bristol'_ s TAO in her Combat Direction Center, "Good hunting, safe return, and bring us some scalps."

LCDR Kenner did not feel the lateral motion of _Eager Beaver_ as _Bristol_ extended her mooring gantry outboard of her docking niche into the corvette's "launch" position. The transition from the grey metal confines of the niche was visible of course through the viewing monitor central to the commander's station console, but final pre-flight checks were more pressing in their importance than looking up the ass end of the corvette being swung-out ahead.

"Internal power, primary and auxiliary is on the top line.", LT Boyle said, continuing through his checklist, "Life support is green. InfoLink connection is established- comms, sensor, navigational, and tactical- all green. Weapons diagnostics and test-arm, all green. Pinpoint defense system is green and on stand-by. Final checklist completed, all green. We're ready to fly, Commander."

"Preflight completed, all green- aye.", Kenner affirmed, awaiting _Bristol'_ s blessing to sortie. Then, musefully and in hopes of keeping nerves settled and minds limber, Kenner said with an applied Western drawl through _Eager Beaver'_ s intercom system to his crew who would understand the reference, " _Well boys, I reckon this is it-. Nuclear combat toe-to-toe with the Ruskies…_ "

There were nervous but grateful chuckles- _mostly_ \- with the only exception being from _Eager Beaver_ 's Senior WSO, LT Gorsky.

" _Отправляйся в ад, Commander.."_

He got the reference – Gorsky's sense of humor was a fickle beast however.

"Wolf Four, Alpha Wolf-. Confirm ready to push."

"Alpha Wolf, Wolf Four-.", Kenner replied to the CDC, "-Ready to push."

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

"Conn, Sensor-. Subspace displacement at one-two-seven mark one-one-zero. – _Distant_ – out well past Earth. Definite fold ripple- multiple vessels. –And there are BEE spikes and compression signatures rising through space proximal to Earth. –Looks like their fleet's waking up, Skipper."

"Conn, aye.", CDR Devereaux replied via intercom to the senior sensorman, LT Phelps, who could have as easily heard her from the sensor shack just off the main CIC compartment had the CO simply doubled the volume of her voice, "-Any indications they see us yet, Sensor?"

"Conn, Sensor-. Negative, ma'am. We're still in thick ambient EM clutter and there's no rise in active sensor pulses from enemy sentries. They're not onto us yet."

LCDR Petersen, standing beside the CO at the tactical display station watched as contact icons within the three-dimensional holographic field began to shift in their positions around Earth as the sudden rise in their energy emissions allowed a firming of their supposed locations. The plots were still far too inaccurate to produce viable firing solutions on what were known to be enemy vessels had they been within range of _Gordon P. Samuels'_ farthest reaching weapons- which they were not. For now, the value of all of the technology that the frigate brought to bear was to tell the officers that the enemy juggernaut was awake and stirring as a result of Doolittle One's attack in progress, some ten light-minutes away.

As the senior sensorman had reported, indications were that the enemy was unaware of Doolittle Two. –But this would be short-lived.

"Sensor, Conn- aye.", Devereaux responded, acknowledging the last of what the sensorman had to offer on the matter. Then, to Petersen she said, "The Admiral must be giving them a good shellacking,…"

"-Must be.", agreed Petersen, then as XO and chief advisor to the captain, dutifully pointed out, "-When the initial shock passes though…"

Devereaux, well aware of the direction in thought to which her first officer was leading her made her concurrence clear, "Yeah- it won't last long."

The confusion and disorientation of surprise attack on any sentient being, had inevitable windfalls of response within their own measurable and predictable timeframes. This applied as true to Zentraedi as any.

While there were doubtlessly astute, individual commanders who from the first word of attack on their supply elements were quick to understand the strong possibility of attack on their main force encircling Earth- their command structure bound them to relative inactivity until orders were issued from above.

Even if the commanders of battle groups were immediately inclined to suspect impending attack, they too were not at liberty to simply detach from the greater Fleet based on intuition. The uncoordinated actions of a unit of hundreds of vessels had the potential to cause as significant a threat to the whole through accidents as an enemy assault.

Changes to a fleet's defensive posture by necessity had to come as orders from the upper echelons of command and be translated into appropriate, coordinated actions at each level below.

All of this even in the direst of situations required time to execute.

In the meantime, an attacker was operating by its own, less restrictive timetable and almost limitless freedom to maneuver.

"We're on.", Devereaux noted, having kept an eye at all times on the operational clock whose report at points carried with it specific actions, "Helm, maintain course and accelerate to flank- all."

"Helm, aye-. Steady as she goes, all ahead flank.", came the quartermaster's response through the intercom from the captain's bridge a deck above in the conning tower, "Engine indicators answering ahead flank."

There was a perceivable movement to the deck beneath the feet of all in CIC and those standing swayed slightly aft as _Gordon P. Samuels_ ' engines powered up in an acceleration curve for which her inertial dampeners could not fully compensate. It was a negligible effect being felt when taking into account that when the _Gordon P. Samuels_ ' engines were producing their maximum _recommended_ output, that the ship was able to achieve 32% the speed of light. Great distances, such as this case of traveling the distance of a position just outside of Venus's orbital path to Earth that by conventional propulsion would have taken months were to be traversed in minutes.

"Conn, Sensor-. Ambient clutter is thinning, Captain. Enemy sensors will be registering our compression wave and EM signature in about two minutes."

"Conn, aye.", Devereaux replied, "Keep your eyes peeled for picket ships and patrols. No sense in tipping our them off before we have to."

"Sensor, aye."

LCDR Petersen listened to the exchange between the CO and Sensorman Phelps while monitoring the ever-developing plots in the tactical display in much the same way that naval officers of old had kept their eyes scanning the horizon for signs of threats. Phelps's warning that Sol's EM hash was becoming a les substantial screen to _Gordon P. Samuels'_ emissions with every second notwithstanding, it was of value to the senior officers to know that the subspace ripple created by the frigate's compression engines would likely be detected by the enemy regardless of the sun's interference. Now certainly alert to the potential of REF activity, Zentraedi sensor technicians were no doubt attending to their comparatively crude systems with a renewed devotion.

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ along with the ten other frigates of Doolittle Two's twelve that were now on the charge would still have the advantage over the enemy in all orbital planes around Earth even if their energy signatures reached the Zentraedi before the REF ships were within weapons' range. The sudden realization of the threat by the enemy would panic them temporarily and give the frigates limited control of the engagement.

The frigates' influence was _limited_ to a nearly moot point only because they were not the REF stars of the fight. They were support primarily for the attack corvettes, the real killers- and for that matter support from the _rear_. Zealousness was a key quality for any commander, but in this circumstance also one to be kept in check. –To press too close to the enemy was to be Icarus flying too close to the sun.

"Quarterbacks on the move!..", Petersen called out with a little more enthusiasm than he was happy to hear from himself at the assurance of tangling with mortal danger.

The 48 _Garfish_ Class Attack Corvettes whose precise positions in the sun's EM hash had been known to the frigates since their separation from their motherships now twinkled to sensor eyes with brilliant EM glory as their powerful sub-light engines carried them forward at nearly the speed of the Pegasus missiles they carried.

It was mere seconds before the attack corvettes overtook the frigates that had been provided an ample head-start, and only seconds more before _Gordon P. Samuels_ and her sisters of general class were easily outpaced.

This was not a race of course, LCDR Petersen was quick to remind himself as the range between his frigate and the trailing corvettes opened quickly. The corvettes had waited a measured time before initiating their charge on the still-unaware enemy in the same way that the detachment of the frigates from the corvette carriers and their charge had been calculated.

The attack corvettes' swiftness meant that there would be a gap of only seconds between when enemy units sensed the first subspace compression waves of the frigate element and when the corvettes would be within launching range of their Pegasus missiles.

For all practical purposes, the corvettes would be striking at a blind enemy.

"Sensor and Weps-.", CDR Devereaux instructed earnestly and clearly, "- _Block and tackle._ Prioritize fire on proximal threats to us first, and then to the corvettes. Today, we're running _defense_ -. Leave the heavy work to the corvettes- _unless you can bag me a flagship-_. A girl has her limits of obedience."

LCDR Petersen was fighting a grin as he shook his head through the Sensor and Fire Control divisions' affirmation of the CO's orders.

Devereaux was not oblivious to her second's efforts, saying without apology, " _Don't judge._ -Like _you_ wouldn't mind hanging that trophy over your mantle…"

"Didn't say a word, ma'am.", Petersen replied.

"Damn right, Pete. You gotta take the opportunities when they present themselves."

"All weapon flight profiles are auto-updating from InfoLink. All birds in the coop are green.", Weapons Systems Officer, LT Gorsky reported, "Seventy-five seconds to initiating firing sequence."

"Seventy-five seconds, aye.", LCDR Kenner replied from the commander's station, "Sensor, how's our projected flight corridor looking?"

"Building traffic, sir. –And we're starting to get broad, enemy sensor pulses. They're looking for us now.", the senior sensor technician advised as _Eager Beaver'_ s more limited sensor systems were augmented in their report through InfoLink by the combined sensing powers of all of the networked ships of Doolittle Two. "-But still navigable. All buoy deployment zones are still open, sir- it'll be a ride, but we can run the gauntlet."

"I'm holding you to that.", Kenner replied, "Set all ECMs to maximum and call out any direct sensor pulse hits. I wanna know whose sights I'm in."

"Aye, sir."

LT Boyle, primarily engaged in his redundant functions as second in command and ship's flight operations took his eyes off of the multiple displays encompassing him at his station to trade a brief look of concern with Kenner.

"I thought we were supposed to have the drop on `em-?.."

Kenner shrugged , impotent in control of unfolding events, "I guess the dittos didn't get that memo. –A sentry ship holding the outer line, maybe?"

"Doesn't matter now, really.", Boyle observed, stating the obvious.

 _60 seconds now._

Ship's systems and flight oriented information was fed to the corvette commander through a series of interactive LCD screens that consumed much of the forward hemisphere of space in the consoles before him, however all relevant flight and operational data was also fused into a miniaturized version of the tactical display central to most larger warships' combat information or direction centers. The "Mini-Tac", as someone had dubbed it from a longer, more complicated and less engaging official nomenclature provided the same three-dimensional situational awareness as its larger forerunner but in a compact version at 20% the dimensions of the original.

Still, even if it had served no more practical purpose than an element of psychological comfort in providing a sense of their surroundings to the crew of the fastest class of ship in the Fleet- LCDR Kenner was grateful to have it suspended above the physical instruments and displays of his station.

Each officer's station in the cockpit had the display, showing a slightly different take on the same environment depending on the information consumer's duties and how they had chosen to customize its display layers and filters.

Kenner chose to drink from the firehose, enabling most of the Mini-Tac's layers and functionality. It was an onslaught of information in reduced size that had taken some self-training and discipline to grow accustomed to. Seeing only the elements that he needed to see for command purposes was still at its best a mental feat, but one that Kenner found shaved critical seconds off of locating customized feature combinations off of a menu of favorites and enabling them.

-And when traveling into combat at just under 40% the speed of light, seconds counted.

Right now, the Mini-Tac was showing exactly what his sensor and weapons officers had reported to him.

Icons representing enemy vessels blinked and shifted abruptly within relatively small spheres of space, showing that an exact position for each contact had not been determined- but in their shell game the inexact plots were showing indications of movement as their positions continued to firm up.

Some vessels in low orbit were moving to higher planes while others exceeded the physical definition of true orbit by accelerating in an attempt to place Earth between themselves and the threat of Doolittle Two that they were now becoming aware of. Others, yet undefined in class by technical analytical methods, but clearly destroyers based on their behavior were leaving their orbits and sentry stations on developing intercept courses.

As the first returns from the destroyers' active sensor pulses reached them coupled with the less distinct EM emissions from Doolittle Two, keenly engaged fire control teams aboard the alien vessels had their first, rough firing solutions on the inbound raiders. Hardly developed well enough to hope for anything but the off-chance of a lucky hit, a firing solution was still a firing solution and Kenner was certain that the aliens had an approximation of what he had heard an REF space gunnery instructor say once: _an energy bolt costs nothing_.

-There was no reason for "wapons-hold".

The Mini-Tac was instantaneously alive with the track of passing particle beam bolts fired in a wide arc and no clearly discernible pattern.

 _Panic fire_.

-But panic fire could kill as easily as a soundly aimed salvo and the Zentraedi were now taking pot-shots at the entire universe.

"Engage pinpoint defense system.", Kenner ordered for LT Boyle's action, "Angle all points forward."

"Pinpoint barrier coming up, aye.", Boyle replied, "All points oriented for maximum lee forward."

While no longer the bodies of formable subspace distortion that _SDF-1_ had happened upon discovering with the loss of her hyperspace fold system after its one and only use years before- the DBS-1 "pinpoint barrier" system now generated three discs of cohesive cold plasma each 75m in diameter that could be oriented to all points of an invisible sphere around the generating craft for the purpose of intercepting energy, kinetic, or guided ordinance fire.

The attack corvettes like _Eager Beaver_ lacked the ample power generation systems that allowed her larger cousins in The Fleet to employ the DBS-2 spherical barrier system that defended all points simultaneously- but for a craft whose trade was "hit-and-run", the DBS-1 was deemed sufficient and truly the best additional defense that could be offered.

 _Damn if it didn't feel flimsy and insubstantial at moments like this though…._

"-Heads-up", advised the senior sensorman, "Pegasus missiles coming up from astern-. Transitioning to pass in tracks on all points. _That would be our back-up…_ "

It was not difficult for LCDR Kenner to pick out on his Mini-Tac the "friendly" weapons of which his sensorman spoke. Traveling along arrow-straight tracks the weapons fired from supporting frigates far astern were now passing _Eager Beaver_ 's corvette squadron on all sides as they accelerated on to the Zentraedi warships coming up out of medium and high orbits to threaten them.

"Let them do their job, people- and let's concentrate on ours.", Kenner said to all around him.

Thirty seconds now separated _Eager Beaver_ from the end of her approach and the beginning of her actual attack run. LT Gorsky, working with his junior weapons systems officers, was continuing to refine the details of the corvette's attack profile that was projected as it evolved in LCDR Kenner's display.

The ship's projected course was punctuated with waypoints where the corvette's missiles would be released on enemy target clusters. Once locked in and authorized by the commander, the attack and all of its intricate action variables would be carried out by computer- the options to abort any or all of the specific profile elements remaining an option to either senior flight officer or the WSO crew up through the firing of the last missile salvo.

–But a full or partial abort was rare as attack profiles normally played out in a span of under ten seconds.

Kenner had no intent to blunt the edge of the sword his command swung unless it was a matter of his crew's safety or the operational safety of the other corvettes- so far as the term _safe_ could be applied in combat. An "abort" prompted by "friendly" factors was unlikely though with the automated coordination between all of the engaging corvettes allowed by InfoLink.

Kenner's concern- his _primary concern_ as the pre-flight briefing had made clear- even surpassing inflicting damage upon the Zentraedi units was the deployment of the sensor and communications buoys that _Eager Beaver_ carried in dedicated tubes normally occupied by mines. It had been made clear to him and a handful of other commanders that while the value of the psychological blow that the raid would inflict upon the enemy was important, it was far outweighed by the need to re-establish situational awareness of the developing situation on Earth and communications with the RDF and ASC forces left behind.

The task lacked the "flash" of immediate glory, but carried the satisfaction of a greater purpose being served- and Kenner understood this clearly.

Nothing said that _Eager Beaver_ couldn't tally up a few capital ship kills along the way though.

"Command, Weapons Control- enemy sensor jamming is diminishing our targeting systems.", the senior weapons control officer advised his superior, Commander Darst, "Firing solution are not developing above forty-percent, Lord."

Darst, from his chair within the command bubble protruding from the aft bulkhead above the command center had been witnessing the evidence of what his subordinate was reporting. Broad patterns of particle beams fired at lower intensity but at the guns' highest rate of rapid fire for the purpose of fixing on enemy targets were proving ineffective as the bolts found empty space where micronian vessels should have been. Active sensor returns that should have provided a momentary but _exact_ glimpse of the enemy positions were curiously ineffective as well as the sensors seemed to report far more vessels on the attack than what the commander found credible.

What Darst's hunter/killer unit of six destroyers charged with the explicit task of defending the greater battle group of which it was an element from attack was now experiencing did however corroborate panicked communications traffic from the 7th Grand Army's distant supply reserve force that was under similar attack.

Supreme General Krymina had made the rare tactical decision of responding personally to that attack, folding her Flagship, _Artoc_ , and its dedicated escort of elite destroyers away to join in the battle. Darst wondered briefly if the supreme general might have had a greater effect by meeting the second element of what was now clearly a dual-pronged attack that had revealed itself scarcely more than a minute after she had departed to chase the distant fight.

From Darst's position, the wisdom of the 7th Grand Army's commanding and executive officers detaching to directly join battle away from the central focus and effort of the campaign that Krymina herself had initiated what seemed so long ago with a forbidden expedition to Tirol and a blatantly treasonous assault on the seat of The Robotech Masters power was….

 _-Was Supreme General Krymina's prerogative._

Such decisions were _her_ discretion, and wisely not questioned- even when evidence was showing them to be flawed.

"Reconfigure your fire to sweeping patterns.", Darst ordered, silently concurring with his weapons officer's assessment that some form of sensor jamming was in play. These micronians were not as conveniently brash as Invid or some norghil that they would attack boldly and directly in the hopes that surprise alone would keep the initiative in their favor. Their tactical savvy was _layered_ \- and apparently deeply so.

As Darst studied the tactical display projected out over the command deck, reduced for the moment to guessing where the actual micronian vessels might be in relation to where his sensors reported them to be- a cluster of proximal contacts deviated from their established course in conjunction with an automated warning that the destroyer was being scanned intensely and directly.

 _Missiles._ Likely the same type that had savaged the leading, sacrificial norghil elements that had assaulted the micronian homeworld days before.

Only now, Darst found himself and his command to be their target.

" _Helm, MAXIMUM POWER, FULL RUDDER LEFT!.._ "

A narrow spread of four Pegasus Mk-4C anti-ship missiles closed the final thousands of kilometers to the same target at maximum speed and under their own, independent integrated active/passive homing systems. All assigned to the same "master" contact by the platform that had fired them, they easily adjusted for the destroyer's sudden turn into and below their track that had been intended to defeat their intercept.

Possessing information on the target vessel's class and coordinating as a spread against a shared target, the Pegasus missiles continued to coordinate the final details of their attack only microseconds from connecting with the destroyer.

Two weapons collaborated in attacking the ship's port engine nacelle, sheering away everything aft of the intercooler assembly in a glittering burst of energy-charged debris.

The ship had not yet reacted to the force of the first strike or the sudden imbalance in the subspace compression wave propelling it when the remaining two missiles of the spread divided themselves between the hangar and magazine spaces of the upper decks. The dorsal hull above the first deck's hanger broke away, mostly intact, riding the explosion of the weapon that had penetrated the internal space- carrying with it the destroyer's distinctive, passive sensor antenna array.

Secondary explosions ruptured areas of the second through fourth decks forward as a magazine was compromised.

A cascade of multiple system failures followed as the destroyer began an uncontrolled tumble and drift.

The other destroyers of the same unit were only generally aware of the damage inflicted upon their sister as they too were receiving a cruel thrashing brought on by the comparatively insignificant-sized Pegasus missiles.

Splitting ways, trailing debris and dissipating smoke in a manner farther to the "clumsy" end of the sliding scale than the "graceful", the destroyers that had retained the ability to navigate under their own power gained maneuvering room just as the missile attack subsided. The dispersed formation however did afford a fortunate measure of survivability to the ships at the center of the battle line as the destroyer that had been at the extreme right end succumbed in a catastrophic flash to damage sustained deep within. Shattered ship's modules, structural members, and hull elements unidentifiable in their mangled state opened like the petals of a great, fiery blossom in all directions, serving as a testimonial display of vengeance that swept molten debris over the destroyer that had held the obliterated vessel's left.

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

The broadband analysis waterfall display pulsed with a twin energy surge blot that filled the breadth of the cascading output and signified nothing less than a cataclysmic explosion some hundreds of thousands of kilometers distant in space. A smaller third surge, not quite along the center line of the first two pulsed briefly and then collapsed in proportions like the shrinking of a deflating balloon- suggesting the destruction of a second vessel brought on by the explosion of the first.

"Now _that's_ pizza and a case of beer courtesy of the CO to the missile room crew who shot those birds-.", CDR Devereaux promised distantly to no one in particular as she was transfixed by the Sensor Shack's replay of the missile attack's windfall.

No less impressed, LCDR Petersen nodded toward the CIC's tactical display that showed the continuing growth of a defensive onslaught from the ample ranks of Zentraedi warships, unfazed by the same occurrence.

"-Hope you have a substantial pizza and beer budget, Skipper- because we've got plenty of trade."

Devereaux was immediately back to business having never left in the truest sense as the temporary delight of destruction was set aside. In under twenty seconds the corvettes would be into their attack runs and the shooting portion of Doolittle Two's _coordinated_ attack would be entering the wind-down.

 _First though-._

Neatly formed Zentraedi battle groups and attack squadrons whose affiliates had been relatively easy to pick out by their station keeping in medium and high orbits were now in the process of scattering and reforming into more aggressive postures. Space around Earth was becoming choked as the alien units spread like a drop of light machine oil onto the surface of still water.

Had the attack corvettes of Doolittle Two been operating alone, CDR Devereaux imagined how it would have been necessary for them to shoot their way into the enemy before the difficult task of cutting their way out. –But they had support provided for just this likelihood, courtesy of Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter.

"Fire Control, designate Masters 404, 425, 461, and 501 as targets- four bird, narrow spreads to be fired upon hot tubes."

LCDR Petersen easily followed his CO's thinking as InfoLink informed them that _Bianca Stowe_ , a sister of _Gordon P. Samuels_ in the _Stratford_ Class was selecting targets on the right flank of the common attack corridor to be used by the corvettes through the enemy's mass. Devereaux's selection broadened the opening to that corridor to the depth to which her weapons could reach.

Other frigates of the escort and support element were similarly at work, attempting to keep the intended path of the corvettes unobstructed while Doolittle Two's senior commander, Commodore Tran was undoubtedly in supervisory mode. He had not elected to "slave" the fire control systems of any of the frigates via CCDS to personally direct the action- at least not yet- and Devereaux had the sense that Tran would not. His focus was primarily on the operational performance of his attack corvettes.

Given the depth of questioning Tran had subjected Devereaux to in Hayes-Hunter's company prior to final selection for Operation Doolittle, and the knowledge he displayed of her operational record- Devereaux was satisfied that he would allow his linemen's aggression do its part. -And Devereaux had no concerns about disappointing him.

"Skipper", Petersen interjected, pointing to three contacts of the original six that _Gordon P. Samuels_ had opened action against and that were now limping slowly toward the Earth's terminator and cover of the planet's night side, "Masters 242, 247, and 233 are still twitching."

Devereaux nodded her awareness of the situation, "I saw `em, Pete. –Plot, give me a course to keep us on mission but get me within Ballista range on those three contacts."

"Not willing to add three hash marks to the _damaged_ column, eh Skipper?", Petersen asked noting a total lack of outgoing fire coming from the three lame and retreating destroyers.

"Were you expecting me to?", Devereaux asked more rhetorically than in genuine solicitation for a response, "They sat at the high-roller table like the rest of us. –Time to fold and cash out. – _Fire Control- Weps, start building your solution on 242, 247 and 233!_ Split and assign dorsal and ventral batteries and commence rapid-fire barrage as soon as you've got a solution. We'll soften `em up on the close and finish `em at range with Ballistas."

"Aye, Skipper!", replied the Fire Control TAO.

Petersen shook his head with mild sympathy for an enemy that was probably at this moment contemplating their fortune at escaping the ill fate suffered by three destroyer crews' count of their comrades only a minute or so earlier.

" _-Somebody_ had their Wheaties this morning _…_ "

"Damn right.", Devereaux said without hesitation, "And I'm already hungry again."

"Conn, Sensor. –The corvettes are initiating their attack runs. Enemy fire volume is escalating."

"Conn, aye.", Devereaux replied, then alternating to a totally different division, "Helm, enough of this dueling-. Get me into knife-fighting range and stay nimble. I want to be a _distraction_ , not a _casualty_."

"Helm, aye."

LCDR Petersen watched the tactical display as the representation of the Sensor Shack's report began to play out before him. Friendly, "Blue Force" icons representing the _Garfish_ Class Attack Corvettes were moving at a steady pace through a collapsing channel of open space, surrounded on all sides by enemy scout and destroyer class vessels. Sensor's report of _escalating fire volume_ was something of an understatement as the channel was shown to be criss-crossed from all points by enemy particle beam fire that varied from the wild and panicky to deliberate and carefully aimed. ECM efforts from the corvette carriers and the attack corvettes were clearly having an effect on the enemy's fire control, but the quantity of fire being poured through the constricted path that the enemy knew the attack corvettes to be running still held a promise of high danger.

Something of the enemy's fury at the affront of being attacked at rest in space that they no doubt presumed to command was evident in the collateral damage the Zentraedi were doing to themselves. Particle beam bolts fired by Zentraedi gun batteries had no loyalty once loosed. Salvos fire or bolts released in rapid-fire fashion had no sense of responsibility and would either travel their course until eventually and at great range they dissipated harmlessly into space, or they would contact physical matter with the intended result. Physical matter up to this moment had not been anything of REF design or manufacture, but an enveloping crossfire carried with it danger to the force creating that crossfire.

Evidence of gunnery hits on Zentraedi vessels by energy bolts not fired from REF guns were periodic enough to draw notice from those around the tactical display of _Gordon P. Samuels'_ CIC, and were increasing adequately to be categorized as "frequent". There was no sign that any "friendly fire" damage received by enemy ships was immediately fatal to the ships being damaged, but the risk of fratricide was being realized by the enemy and treated as a secondary concern to engaging a raiding force of a fractional size.

LCDR Petersen could not fathom the rationality in the Zentraedi's action, but could feel distinctly their rage.

Suddenly, the urge to _finish_ the immediate mission at hand was stronger and moving to the forefront of his thoughts.

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

 _Observation_ and _analysis_.

Above all other disciplines, Action Commander Iyos had come to recognize early in conduct of her command that _observation_ and _analysis_ were the most critical in combat whether it was small unit or grand scale action.

Others could dispute her position and argue effectively other vital skills or qualities they felt were superior, but for Iyos it was observation and analysis.

One could champion the quality of _boldness_ either in the attack, or as fortitude in defense when initiative belonged to the enemy. It could swing the direction of battle in one's favor- _true._ Iyos had seen this in her time, and in a good many cases, the assertion of boldness as a commander's key attribute was a difficult one to contest.

The balance between _planning_ and _improvisation_ was touted by others and for reasons that Iyos recognized readily and accepted. Who could deny that the edge provided by the most powerful warships or bravest and most seasoned warriors was dulled if forethought was not applied to _how_ they would be used in battle? –And as Action Commander Trefna who Iyos had succeeded as commander of the 5121st Destroyer Squadron had proved in adhering rigidly to his plan of attack on assigned objectives in the initial assault on the micronian homeworld- failure to adapt a plan during execution could prove to be as fatal an error as having no plan at all.

Action Commander Iyos maintained confidence that it was _observation_ and _analysis_ first that enabled any of the other command qualities argued by others to be truly effective.

It was a principle she would not debate vigorously as sometimes in the hierarchal system that was the command structure of The 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl there were advantages to allowing others, to include _superiors_ , to operate under flawed pretenses.

Iyos's elevation to squadron commander was proof.

What Iyos's _observation_ and _analysis_ of the notably small micronian attack now in progress and scarcely two minutes old told her was that nearly every other Te'Dak Tohl commander on station in orbit of the alien world was playing directly into what she expected was the enemy's plan.

As though they were deploying to meet a massive, fleet action counterattack, or an Invid onslaught- Iyos's own superiors were actually _providing_ the enemy with targets of opportunity piled deeply in their path. The aliens hadn't the unit weight or density for a prolonged fight, so theirs was clearly a hit-and-run battle plan- and how grateful their commanding officer must have been to see so many Te'Dak Tohl commanders volunteering themselves to make that plan the most effective it could be.

What Iyos knew would hobble the _hit-and-run_ tactic of her enemy was to bind her adversary to battle and make him start thinking _defensively._ –It was just the question of finding the sensitive area to which to apply pressure.

Iyos was sure of _how_ \- but for _Destroyer 2913_ and for the eleven remaining destroyers of her reduced squadron awaiting reconstitution it meant a moment of truth that the Te'Dak Tohl officers and sub-officers had maneuvered around gingerly.

Iyos's plan meant reliance on the abilities of a now largely "improved" norghil crew in what would be intense and rapidly evolving action, and in a way that they had not experienced already in this campaign. –But thus far, their proficiency and conduct had been _acceptable._ Whether this performance would endure was a test now at hand.

Iyos had observed and analyzed, had quickly developed her plan of attack that she was confident she and her subordinate commanders could adapt quickly as needed-.

Now came the variable of battle with which Iyos was least comfortable- _Fate's favor._

"Glankira", Iyos said to her executive officer who had up to this time stood dutifully and in silence at her commander's side in the ship's command bubble awaiting instructions, "Order the squadron to divide by attack element. Commander Walho will direct the actions of Elements Two, Three, and Four and take them at maximum speed on a parabolic course to where the star's electromagnetic interference thickens just outside of the orbital path of the system's second planet. He will conduct a sweep there employing active sensors and flush out the alien commander-."

Glankira considered the expansive area to which her commander was referring and without disobedience asked, "-You suspect the commanding officer of this attack to be there?"

Iyos replied with certainty, " _He's there_. Walho should back-track along the engaged enemy's mean course and sweep broadly. He will find him."

Glankira nodded her agreement to her commander's confidence in her own plan if not the logic of it and asked the clear, remaining question, "And what of the element lingering with us, Liege?"

Iyos studied the tactical display suspended in hologram over the command deck before her, wondering where precisely in the EM clutter her adversary might be hiding.

"Have them stand by for a short-range fold-jump and ready to fight."

"Yes, Liege- though it's my duty to point out that a short-range jump in such proximity to the star's mass is inherently dangerous."

"So noted.", Iyos replied without offense- it _was_ Glankira obligation to voice such concerns. "If my gamble is unsound, I'll be among the first to realize it."

"Auto-firing sequence initiated-.", LT Gorsky reported from his seat at the lead WSO's station, "Package One, _missiles away!_ "

LCDR Kenner alternated his attention through a number of concurrent activities that were intertwined in play as the largely pre-programmed flight profile of _Eager Beaver_ and the firing of her missiles progressed. Missile tracks stretched rapidly away from the corvette within the virtual and sanitized world of the commander's tactical display, leaving the attack ship in the proverbial dust as the weapons sought out their targets. The connection of anti-ship missiles and targets, not all _Eager Beaver'_ s, was kept clinically sterile in its representation offering no suggestion of the great loss of life that occurred each time a missile struck home, registering only as a flicker and flare of a "hostile" contact icon.

Full understanding and the associated, "mixed feelings" were sure to follow at some point, sooner or later. –But this was why chaplains and counseling specialists were maintained as Military Occupational Specialties by the Robotech Defense Forces.

Sentient beings both human and alien alike within the besieged world's circle of solar illumination and along its equatorial and tropical latitudes who might have been looking skyward were witness to a bizarre show of violent eruptions in the normally uniform blue canopy of the daytime heavens. Vivid bursts of nuclear and Protoculture-fueled fire blotched briefly the sky at seemingly random points while a fainter strobe and streak of heavy energy gunfire crisscrossed the sky from orbiting warships who themselves remained invisible to occupants of the world below. Deep booms rolled in heavy waves as numerous energy bolts intended for swift targets missed and penetrated atmosphere, superheating the air to create the thunderclap effect and generating genuine explosions where particle beam met sea or earth.

Zentraedi battle groups that had broken formation hastily with the natural startle attributable to attack were reforming as quickly as the intricate dance of maneuvering would allow into a more defense-oriented posture.

Sensors acquired targets far smaller than what Zentraedi crews had expected to be capable of generating the steady issuance of punishment that their rousing Fleet was receiving, and moving at speeds that defied initial belief. Gun batteries designed to engage capital ships and planetary targets swiveled and arced to track in on the swift-footed aggressors but struggled to maintain the required lead to ensure accuracy of fire.

Volume over precision of fire quickly became the default method of engaging in counterattack and saw more Zentraedi particle beam bolts find Zentraedi vessels than REF ones.

"Package Two, _away!_ Missiles running true and steady.", Gorsky continued to report as his subordinates communicated with one another from their stations around him, "Initiating sensor buoy deployment sequence-."

From his station to the right of Kenner's, LT Boyle monitored all of _Eager Beaver_ 's operational activities as well and advised on a point that had caught Kenner's attention a moment before.

"The flight corridor's starting to get a little tight around the egress point, boss-. We may need to go manual on the out."

"How are we looking through the buoy deployment run?", Kenner asked.

"Package Three, missiles running! Buoys One through Four, away!", Gorsky interjected.

"That leg's still good- _for now._ ", Boyle replied, making his judgment call by the movement of enemy units into the area of the attack corvette's flight path.

That "leg" of the flight path Kenner knew had roughly four seconds of life left to it at the speed that _Eager Beaver_ was traveling. Even as the sensor buoys were being deployed almost simultaneously, the brief gaps between each being released and automatically firing their braking thrusters translated to intervals of thousands of kilometers. The buoys of the satellite constellation would begin communicating between themselves shortly and would adjust to form a stable configuration. –But this was not Kenner's concern.

"Keep your eye on the exit, but we're gonna have to run the gauntlet while we deploy-."

"Packages Four and Five, away!", Gorsky announced, a hint of relief coming through his substantial accent, "We're Pegasus- _empty_. Ballistas down to thirty-seven percent capacity and still in auto-fire mode. –Buoys Five through Nine in deployment, _now_!.."

The menace of enemy fire continued to rage from all points as the corridor of passage through the Te'Dak Tohl's low and medium orbital rings around Earth's middle latitudes continued to shrink with the counter-offensive intents of the aliens. Particle beam bolts passed _Eager Beaver_ at all angles both ridiculously far and off-target, and closer than the crew would have been comfortable with knowing.

Most of the uncoordinated enemy barrage passed aft of the relatively small and incredibly swift craft, but the seemingly random fire grew gradually but steadily more accurate with every passing moment that Zentraedi weapons officers had to assess their shortcomings in fire control and adapt. _Eager Beaver_ being just ahead of the "middle" in order of the assault corvette force's attack wave had the inevitable misfortune of seeing the refinements in the enemy's gunnery. The risk, the crew knew well however was no different than that run by any Service-member putting themselves in harm's way-. Death for an assault corvette crew was only exceptional in that it came at nearly half the speed of light.

The assault corvette crew benefitted though from the fact that their engagement time was so brief- under twenty seconds on target in this case- and the required duties so consuming, that close brushes with death were mostly realizations after the fact.

 _Eager Beaver_ like her sisters in the class of vessel did not suffer apprehensions before battle, nor was she shaken by "close calls" in the course of the fight, or afflicted by "the shakes" coming down after. Automatic systems designed specifically to act and react proportionately with the corvette's superior speed identified, acquired, and designated targets for the admirable arsenal of anti-ship weapons she carried. With timing and precision that humans were incapable of, computers calculated the release points for multiple Ballista missiles simultaneously and directed their release from launchers at points on the dorsal, ventral, and both side hulls using the corvette's velocity at launch point to "sling" the missiles as much as the weapons' own propulsion to carry them to target. Te'Dak Tohl warships lulled into false security by the lack of energy weapons' fire from the corvettes and with the exhaustion of Pegasus missile fire that they as a fleet had learned to fear in their time in the Sol system were surprised unpleasantly as those within the sling-augmented range of Ballistas were mauled by the smaller ASMs.

Many a destroyer acting on the offensive was pummeled by multiple Ballista hits, revealing with the severe wounding a second threat in human missile technology as worthy of fearing as the Pegasus.

 _Salan_ Class scout ships, seeming by more comparable size to be the best option to close upon and engage the _Garfish_ Assault Corvettes fell victim to the same misperceptions as their larger, destroyer relatives. The mistake for the _Salan_ scouts, unfortunately, was more often fatal than for the significantly more robust destroyers who were treated to small spreads of Ballistas. The lighter, thinly armored _Salan_ s lacked the ruggedness to sustain multiple hits by the powerful Ballista, ProtEx warheads. In almost equal numbers, the scouts were either destroyed outright- fragmenting like shattering glass- or disabled and left tumbling helplessly adrift.

Savage as the punishment received by Te'Dak Tohl warships from Ballista missiles was, it was punishment received by a _minute_ number in comparison to the fleet now fully awakened- and no worse than death by Invid swarms, that many unit commanders had witnessed first-hand. Individual vessel commanders and particularly unit commanders all feeling the advantage of odds in their numbers were little effected by the demise of so few comrades if there was much notice at all, and uniformly the counterattack was pressed with the fervor of those unafraid.

"-I think that was _Big Cordelia_ -.", reported _Eager Beaver_ 's senior sensorman, LT Fields- providing somber but quick exposition to what all in the corvette's cockpit/bridge had witnessed on their "Mini-Tac". A "friendly" icon in the churning field of sensor-relayed activity had flared with a detected high-energy surge, and then without any of the indications of destruction common to first-hand observation, was gone.

No contact was registered by _Eager Beaver_ 's own sensors with her sister that had been trailing some 5,000Km astern- a "short" interval at the speed they were travelling- and _Big Cordelia_ 's connections into InfoLink were now showing red to LCDR Kenner.

-And even in the unlikely case that all indications of the other corvette's destruction were wrong and that she was only damaged and her crew still alive, there was nothing that _Eager Beaver_ or any of the other corvettes could do to assist.

Like fighter pilots witnessing the downing of a fellow airman, they could only be witness and at most mark the location for search and rescue. Also like fighter pilots the attack corvette crew understood that without clear evidence of a downed comrade's survival, marking a spot for SAR was little more than a well-intentioned obligation- especially deep within space held firmly by an enemy where SAR could not hope to operate.

It was a real possibility that every corvette crew understood- being disabled beyond the reasonable reach of assistance. –And like fighter pilots, the appropriate MO was just not to speak of it.

LCDR Kenner knew the officers of _Big Cordelia_ well, and the crew some though and had seen their direly enthusiastic faces in a briefing less than two hours before. The thought of not seeing any of those faces again was one that he dismissed with ease he found troubling, though the competing demands on his attention were a genuinely good cause.

"Do your jobs and we'll deal with it later.", Kenner said, not sure if the perceived eternity between the sister corvette's loss and his words would make his direction to officers and crew puzzling in meaning.

Focus on matters more pressing to _Eager Beaver_ and her crew reasserted itself violently.

A sledgehammer blow that shook the vessel at every seam and threatened to liquefy both craft and crew in its intensity rolled over all accompanied by a flutter of internal lighting and systems.

Before the squeal and groan of stressed metal and the strobe of lights, instruments, and displays had subsided a shrill voice that did not sound as though it could have belonged to any of the grown men of the crew exclaimed, " _WE'RE HIT!.._ "

As the audible protest of the vessel subsided and the means of making such a determination returned, LCDR Kenner and LT Boyle were already in a frenzied exchange regarding condition of the craft. The engineering team aft and below added to the collision words, throwing their own checks and reports into the mix.

"- _Hull integrity warning, dorsal starboard! Frames 91 to 103!.._ ", LT Boyle called as the damage control system revealed as much to him, "Did we get hit?.."

Kenner initially preoccupied with verification that the ship was still navigable and soundly under computer control in the last seconds of the attack portion of its flight profile now glanced over the MFD he had designated to monitor ship's systems status. With the receipt of damage, it had defaulted to a structural and hull status mode that corroborated what Boyle had reported.

Outer hull plates were compromised in a localized area with some significant structural damage beneath the outer skin. There was additional minor buckling to the pressure hull well within _Eager Beaver'_ s outer skin, but only the most modest of pressure leaks at three identified points.

"No-.", Kenner replied, realizing that the vibration he felt still in his throat was the racing of his own heart, "-If we'd taken a hit from a ditto heavy, we'd be at orientation with St. Pete already-. I'm guessing a debris strike softened by the deflection field."

" _Soft my ass…_ ", Boyle laughed as _Eager Beaver_ transitioned into the egress portion of the flight profile and marking the end of her first attack run.

"Keep flying, or it could be all of our asses-.", Kenner said, extending the order to all the crew and their duties by his tone, "-The dittos may want to give chase until we outrun `em and the reach of their guns! Keep frosty. –Navs, recalculate egress route to rendezvous to minimize our time in proximity to the target area. I don't want to risk an actual gun hit…"

"Aye sir, trimming the fat now-."

"And Boyle, keep the barrier points angled smartly-.", Kenner said, realizing that he was panting slightly.

It was okay though, through his the headphones in his helmet he could hear it was a common reaction to recent events being experienced by all.

"You got it, boss."

"Good- I'm just gonna fly this beast and work on swallowing my heart again."

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Bristol**_

 _Attack out of the sun._

-Clearly, humankind had not been the only species to have learned and embraced the advantages of that tactic. –And clearly humans, even ones well trained in military operation, could still fall victim to it.

Sixty seconds before the TAOs and technicians of _Bristol'_ s Combat Direction Center had been busy closing out the "hit-and-run" strike by Doolittle Two's attack corvettes on the enemy- accounting for the four corvette carriers' attack ships of which three were known to have been lost and another eight damaged, confirming the operation's primary recovery point, and conducting a quick battle damage assessment on the enemy fleet.

-And then, out of the sun and at an incredibly short range of under 90,000 kilometers- the enemy had appeared through the thick of the same EM has that Doolittle Two had used to make their stealthy approach.

A single Zentraedi destroyer had been detected passively by the sole frigate, _Jun Chau_ , that had remained with the carriers for defense. Navigating shrewdly with her engines idle in a "sprint and drift", and emerging from deeper in the hash than Doolittle Two, it had been equal parts the skill of one of the frigate's sensormen and sheer luck that the enemy vessel had not drawn closer.

Clearly it had not been a chance encounter though-.

Even as _Jun Chau_ was reacting, the destroyer had pierced the EM clutter with a series of active sensor pulses that had firmly established the positions of the four corvette carriers and the frigate as well.

The shooting was already a heavy trade as the single destroyer became three- the other two of what was quickly evident to be a unit showed themselves with the employment of their own active sensor systems and moments later their primary gun batteries.

 _Jun Chau_ had replied smartly with spreads of Pegasus missiles fired "from the hip" on rough solutions at the already formidable threat turned from three into _six_ destroyers on approach.

Six became _nine_ as the EM-hobbled Pegasus missiles fired by _Jun Chau_ scored only a single hit in the blinding clutter and the Te'Dak Tohl response reached full intensity.

Commodore Tran had been ordering an emergency fold-jump for Doolittle Two- the only viable means of escape under the circumstances- and awash in the initial swell of panic in his flagship's CDC as the vengeful reciprocity of the aliens extended to his corvette carriers. Barrier systems down with the need to apply all power to their spacefold systems, the lightly armored carriers staggered under the rapid-fire barrage of Te'Dak Tohl guns whose aim was only aided by each subsequent strike of particle beam bolt on target.

-And at that moment, the situation worsened.

A surge of subspace displacement announced the arrival of what was quickly identified by _Bristol'_ s own sensors to be an additional three _Thuverl Salan_ Class destroyers, materializing from fold at under 20,000 kilometers range and completing a crude ring of attackers that suddenly encircled Doolittle Two.

Sensors were lost in the next few moments and their ability to be of any use nulled as an energy bolt penetrated deeply _Bristol'_ s hull somewhere in the region below and aft of the CDC causing a buckling of deck plates and bulkheads and the eruption of electrical fires at many stations around the compartment.

This was the condition of Commodore Tran's CDC around him now, the muted cries of the burned and injured still heard with ghastly clarity through the wail of the ship's alarms and the hiss of space sucking at the ship's air. Crew at stations that promised at least the possibility of functional recovery worked feverishly to re-establish it, while those whose areas were clearly wrecked beyond salvage became impromptu litter-bearers moving the wounded who could be moved out of the compartment for first aid.

The air was aglow in red emergency lighting and thick with smoke and the non-conducting chemicals of fire extinguishers that were being used all around as Tran got his feet beneath him again.

Captain Holt was supporting himself on the edge of the now-useless tactical display station, intercom phone pressed to the side of his bloodied and burned face as he communicated with damage control. Seeing Tran upright again despite the regular impact of energy salvos that continued to quake the deck, the vessel's commanding officer reported clinically,

"-I can't raise the bridge, Commodore. –And even if I could, the Reflex furnace is off-line. All gun batteries are in auto-fire mode, but drawing from auxiliary power- not much of a threat to those destroyers… Subspace Comms are down, but we can have UHF radio in a few minutes, I think."

Tran placed his hands on the dark surface of the tactical display that had shown him combat proof of his carrier-based attack corvette concept only minutes before. Everything _Bristol_ was suffering now was reciprocity for what could still only be considered a qualified success. Martial achievement was rarely without some cost.

"No need.", Tran told the ship's CO, "Anyone able to has already jumped away."

Holt was no longer listening to the phone still pressed to his ear, but rather realizing the few options left to him in his command's worsening condition.

"Well then-?"

Tran was solemn, "You and I have critical knowledge of REF operations, Holt. For the crew- the Zentraedi are not known to take prisoners, and if they should- I would not envy the captured."

Holt's expression spoke of understanding, as he asked for advice, "-And what do I tell them?"

Unable to summon anything better, Tran replied, "They're consumed in duty, Holt – let them have the comfort of that distraction."

 _ **Destroyer 2913**_

"Order all units to cease fire.", Action Commander Iyos instructed as the flash of spacefold subsided from the second micronian vessel to jump away in desperate escape.

Sub-Commander Glankira was hastily relaying the order to subordinate commanders with urgency that she knew the order to carry. Had Iyos's intent been to utterly destroy the enemy that Commander Walho had successfully fixed upon, it would have been an order explicitly conveyed- or at least the order to halt the attack would not have been given.

Certainly the enemy that had just folded away had only had moments remaining in a condition where escape was a viable option. Continued attack from all sides to which they had found themselves subject to would have quickly left them in the condition of those vessels remaining.

Of the three, the smallest had put up the most defiant of resistance oddly enough- exhibiting a greater arsenal of weapons at its disposal despite its fractional size to the others located by Walho.

It had put up the most spirited fight, and in the rush and frenzy of battle it had simply been overwhelmed – succumbing to internal explosions and breaking into multiple pieces as _Destroyer 2913_ had arrived to the battle via short-range jump.

The other two micronian vessels, ungainly, unwarship-like, and at a glance clearly of the same class had quickly fallen victim to the dual misfortunes of being the targets most immediately accessible to Walho's attack, and not being as solidly constructed as their bulk suggested. Before it had seemed plausible, both vessels had been tattered through a tepid effort at counter-fire – one breaking nearly in two and set tumbling joined at the center mass only by twisted and flexing structural members, and the other only modestly defensible and navigable under reduced power.

It was the latter in which Iyos had interest, though the particulars of achieving her sudden goal of capture were still a work in progress.

Clearly, the alien vessel would neither leap away through hyperspace as its companions had, nor would it outrun any of Iyos's squadron. Escape was not within the enemy's reach or grasp.

As Fate would have it in its sense of balancing fortune for all, Iyos knew that she could not hope to either board or seize the sole, disabled micronian vessel that appeared to still be sustaining life. The sheer physical size of her Warriors precluded it.

Micronization was the clear option to allow physical access to the micronian ship, but this too presented challenges that a standardly equipped ship of the Fleet was not equipped to handle. –Once micronized, Iyos's Warriors were without usable weaponry- without basic _uniform_ even, to say nothing of environmental gear to survive the vacuum that the enemy ship had been opened up to in the process of accessing areas of the ship that were still pressurized.

Iyos resigned herself to the fact that she was within reach of a prize of great value, only to not be within reach at the same time.

Fate sometimes frustrated even the most capable of Warriors.

"Approach to within range and launch fighters and mecha to establish a perimeter.", Iyos ordered her executive officer, "Experience has shown that they likely may have escape vehicles-. If so, they are to be taken intact with as little damage as possible. –And contact battle group command to inform Action General-."

The main viewscreen above the command deck flashed a piercing strobe of brilliance and was instantly filled with a softer glow of green-tinged blue that subsided to reveal the scatter of molten, manufactured metal and synthetic form spreading in all directions. The broken vessel that had been adrift while not consumed by explosion of its languishing companion was further diminished in structural integrity and showed progressive signs of break-up as its tumble became erratic with the force of high velocity collisions with debris.

 _Destroyer 2913_ was far too distant from the scene of the apparent suicide to be effected with the exception of an understandable shock at having a would-be prize so unexpectedly snatched away.

" _Cowardly._ ", Glankira muttered at seeing her enemy's lives end in a form other than that of the appropriate means for a warrior- combat.

Iyos understood though, and knew that her opponent had read and understood well her intentions.

"Admirable.", she countered simply without admonishment in the least for Glankira's differing assessment.

And suddenly, as things often happened in battle- there was no action to be had here.

The battle had been brief and fairly won, but Iyos knew her duties now lay elsewhere and it was her greatest desire to find them.

 **U.E.S.S.** _ **Gordon P. Samuels**_

" _Ventral Battery Two out of action!_ ", LCDR Petersen reported, assimilating information from both the ship's status boards he'd called up on his side of the tactical display and from the Damage Control Center with whom he was communicating by intercom phone.

"-We've got multiple penetration points in the primary hull low port and ventral spanning frames forty-seven to seventy-two. Pressure hull leaks through inner-hull buckling deck twelve in compartments-."

" _I get it- we're hit!.."_ , Devereaux snapped with unintended but situationally-reasonable edge as crew continued to pick themselves up from the blow that had nearly knocked the CO off her feet herself moments before.

There had been no warning of a hit from enemy gunfire from any particular direction because increasing levels of enemy gunfire were now coming in from almost _all directions._

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ ' crew had done their job eagerly and proficiently from CDR Devereaux to the ship's mess staff who acted as damage control and nurse's assistants in combat conditions- but no level of skill or aggression could offset the inevitable direction that the battle was now taking.

Te'Dak Tohl squadrons and battle groups were no longer rousing themselves from lazy station-keeping in orbit around Earth. The Zentraedi beast was now fully awake, and with the attack corvettes' breaking of contact and lightning egress from the battlespace, the rage of the enemy was in need of another outlet.

The clear and readily available target was the force of frigates that had chased in the wake of the corvette assault in hopes of providing some measure of distraction and defense for them from the rear. In this task, they had been as successful as any operational planner had dared hope, but that task accomplished the order of the day had become every vessel for itself in the face of obscenely overwhelming odds.

For minutes now _Gordon P. Samuels_ had been fighting from behind a layered defense- employing her sensor image projection system to the maximum while shielding herself with the protective bubble of her DS-2 spherical barrier defense system which dulled the edge of her electronic countermeasures somewhat. Running without the added physical protection to the ship had simply become unsound though as enemy vessels were filling space with active sensor pulses in hopes of finding quarry upon which their guns could be trained.

The wisdom of the decision had repeatedly shown its self-evidence over the course of just a few minutes as _Gordon P. Samuels_ ' barrier had absorbed a dozen or more glancing blows from enemy particle beams, and five direct hits penetrating- the last of which had contacted the hull to the effect reported to the CO through LCDR Petersen.

"Conn, Communications-. Subspace UHF on Priority channels from _Jun Chau_ and the carriers-. They're reporting themselves engaged at close range, Skipper- sounds bad…"

"Conn, aye."

Devereaux did not waste breath on voicing questions of whether such circumstances could ever be deemed "good" and instead invested herself on closing out business for herself and her command this day.

Power was still strong to all of _Gordon P. Samuels_ ' gun batteries with the exception of the ventral battery Petersen had reported knocked out of action, and they continued to suck juice as quickly as it could be fed to them. There was an abundance of targets, and all were growing steadily nearer under covering fire from their own guns.

All that could be done had been done, and now it was time to leave.

"Weps, what's in the tubes?!", Devereaux demanded from the Senior Fire Control Director.

"All tubes will be hot in fifteen seconds Skipper- reloading in progress."

"Select proximal Master targets and push the solutions!", Devereaux ordered, craving strangely at that moment the cigar in her coveralls' breast pocket that she had reserved for after this very battle. She wasn't done earning it just yet though.

"-Navs, refine your jump profile to the rendezvous point, and Fold-Ops stand by to execute."

"Aye, Skipper!"

"Conn, Fire Control- all tubes hot- _now._ "

"Shoot upon assignment, Weps!", Deveraux ordered and was rewarded with the indication of Pegasus missiles leaving her ship before she issued her next order, "-Helm, come right one-two-five degrees and keep it _floored!_ "

"We getting outta here, Skipper?", Petersen asked, the steely-nerved XO sounding clearly relieved.

"We're getting _the hell outta here._ "

Even under the buffering effect of inertial dampeners, _Gordon P. Samuels_ creaked and groaned with the physical strain of changing course at sub-light speeds and her crew felt the same effect having to lean heavily into the turn or risk being thrown by it. Loose objects, of which there were very few in CIC slid away from the turn skipped across the deck to resting places against station consoles or bulkheads.

Devereaux monitored the changing direction of her ship's plot in the tactical display as she came hard about in the direction of the only broad avenue mostly devoid of enemy units left available to her. She would make the jump into fold long before she physically cleared the collapsing pocket of converging Zentraedi vessels- but there was a certain psychological relief that came with actively evading peril.

Other frigates of Doolittle Two were in the process of jumping away already- but the last of Devereaux's "hot" tubes were only now releasing their weapons – and Devereaux had one last surprise she could leave for the dittos at minimal risk to herself and her ship.

The tactical display blanked for a moment, a split-second really, returning with all of the detail it had shown before its flicker, but with the blinking message "RE-ESTABLISHING INFOLINK NETWORK".

InfoLink, channeled through _Bristol_ as Doolittle Two's flagship had collapsed signifying a number of horrible possibilities that Devereaux had neither the time or emotional capacity to dwell upon at the moment.

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ was leaving.

 _Bianca Stowe_ in trail by 500Km and to _Gordon P. Samuels'_ port flashed in icon representation as parting salvos from the Te'Dak Tohl found her barrier and obliterated the little field integrity it had left to it. Devereaux's heart entered her throat as she looked for what indications the tactical display could give her of the sister- _Stratford_ Class frigate's condition and whether she was to be lost so near to the moment of escape.

Breath escaped Devereaux in relief as _Bianca Stowe_ 's icon glowed in the blue flicker that indicated spacefold and then vanished.

"I thought we were leaving, Skipper?!", Petersen asked as _Gordon P. Samuels_ became the lone REF vessel on a churning sea of Zentraedi fury.

"Weps-.", Devereaux ordered as the CIC shook around her from another strike to her vessel's weakening barrier sphere, "Deploy mines- wide dispersal!"

"Conn, Fire Control, aye! Mines away and clear. Lockers empty!"

"Cease gun fire, secure all and return guns from battery! -Sensor, retract and secure passive antennas!", LCDR Petersen added, inserting the necessary direction between the CO's orders.

"Drop barrier!.", Devereaux ordered as she motioned to the waiting Fold Operations station and its technicians, " _GO!"_

" _Barrier secure!"_

" _Folding!"_

 _Gordon P. Samuels_ slipped smoothly into hyperspace with the dissolving blue streak of her hull-conformal field and to her enemies was gone.

Salvos fired by Te'Dak Tohl vessels both shrewdly and wildly sliced through now-open space having been fired at a target that no longer remained even in the same physical plane.

The hounds' blood was up and their nostrils filled with the scent, and though the fox had vanished from the field into a burrow- the ground it had occupied had the primal requirement attached to it to investigate.

For this purpose with little hope of confirming anything but open space and the waning trembles of subspace disturbance left in the wake of a spacefold, a single destroyer advanced in trail of a four _Salan_ scout element in a narrow search and sweep formation.

As space near to Earth had acquired in the past days an expected quantity of metallic and synthetic debris, it was not inconceivable that eight masses, each slightly smaller in dimensions to a city bus, and seemingly adrift were missed by Zentraedi sensor technicians searching for threats in the form of a warship.

The eight Mk-29 self-propelled mines were drifting, though in a controlled, self-monitoring fashion that had borrowed velocity from their deployment from the tubes situated in _Gordon P. Samuels'_ aft, ventral hull and moderated by small bursts of thrust from their maneuvering jets.

The weapons were already in communication with one another, aware of each other's relative positions, and working to form a pre-assigned net configuration that would maximize the area of the snare they were intended to be measured by the reach of the four Ballista missiles each carried. –And though they had not yet reached their optimum "net" configuration, the mines were active and aware by means of passive sensors the approach of five spacecraft.

Panels opened along the smooth flanks of three mines within the field that the collective had determined to be best positioned to ambush the approaching prey, and initial guidance was fed to the Ballistas as they were swung outboard within their launch tubes.

Coldly calculating and unflappably patient computers waited, waited, waited as the Zentraedi warships came on, touching the outer sphere of the Ballista's range. Deciding by risk-algorithm to stay missile release and permit the warships to draw even nearer, the mines oriented themselves into position.

Having determined by passive sensor analysis that the vessels were indeed Zentraedi, the three mines performed a final failsafe function intended to prevent accidental fratricide-. A coded, subspace transmission burst made IFF challenge to the approaching vessels and waited for a fraction of a second for the response that would have been provided by a "friendly".

No response.

The three mines exhausted themselves with a in a single volley, a fusillade of all twelve of their combined Ballistas released at just over 8,000Km distance.

The weapons had shed their rocket motor launch stage and were halfway to target before the small Zentraedi force was even aware of the threat, and the orders for evasive action in the process of being given when eight Ballistas divided themselves evenly between the leading line of _Salan_ Class scouts.

Nuclear warheads in the .5 kiloton range, each comparable to a full-powered particle beam bolt from one of their own vessel's primary battery turrets, penetrated thinly armored hulls and detonated with lethal effect from within.

Burning clouds of nuclear-fired vapor were still expanding in the space where the _Salan_ scouts had been when the destroyer, initiating an emergency turn and 2,000Km in trail took the remaining four Ballistas in staggered hits that walked along the length of her starboard flank. Her thicker outer hull intended to stand the trials of the line of battle accepted most of the explosions with some severe though non-catastrophic damage penetrating into the secondary hull and the compartments within. The starboard engine flared brilliantly as the last missile of the salvo struck it squarely through the intercooler vents, rendering the drive unit useless.

Other Te'Dak Tohl vessels, tens and hundreds of thousands of kilometers distant who had been monitoring the probing unit's progress with only modest interest were suddenly at alert again- wary now of a formerly unknown threat, but in the terror of not understanding it's precise nature or abilities.

The fox it seemed had teeth even in its absence, and sharp ones at that.

For the hounds whether or not it was their intent, the day's hunt was over.

 **Brasilia**

"When can I get outta here, Sarge?", PFC Crawley from 3rd Platoon's 2nd Squad asked Byerly eagerly, having probably asked his own squad leader, Sgt. Nadeau already and not gotten the answer he wanted.

The makeshift infirmary set up in one of the niches off of the unfinished subway station's tunnel sheltered worse cases for treatment than Crawley, but the gauze bandages applied with medical tape to a good portion of the left side of the PFC's face, and the empty syrette of morphine similarly taped to the frame of the cot he sat on with the time of its administration said that he was in the right place. Scorch marks to Crawley's body armor that was collected in a neat pile nearby spoke of a Regult's particle beam that had hit near enough to sear its synthetic components, and also the PFC's face that had been unshielded for some undetermined reason at the time of the bolt's arrival.

Crawley was fortunate though- a direct or nearer hit by the weapon designed to engage and defeat light to moderately armored mecha would have precluded the need for him to be restricted to the infirmary and the medics' care.

Crawley knew of course, but he was not one who liked to be seen idle or slacking. –It wasn't the Ranger way.

"You'll get out when Doc Lancing says you get out.", Byerly replied shortly but with unspoken understanding of Crawley's desire to be back on the line, "Until then that cot is the post you're standing."

"-Post he's _sitting_ , Sarge.", corrected PFC Gordon from 3rd Squad, laying face-down on the cot next to Crawley, "Best thing too, `cause seeing his pretty face all jacked up would just break everyone's heart…"

Crawley, not so dulled by morphine to not recognize a jab and respond shot back, "Yeah, well at least I _can_ sit, you _tool_. How the fuck do you get shrapnel in the butt wearing body armor? You must'a _wanted it_ in the ass!.."  
"Like your sister?"

"Yeah, and your mama."

Whilite, who had been hanging back gestured at Byerly to end the schoolyardish repartee – it was clear that the wounds were neither life-threatening, nor banter-quelling unfortunately. -And there were occupants of other cots who needed quiet to rest and whose platoons had fared worse than 3rd.

"Yeah, well be nice to one another.", Byerly said in a forced, "mother" tone, "-You've got so much to talk about now- like having your best sides all tore up."

Crawley laughed a little, the rip on Gordon made a little funnier by the morphine as the other PFC replied, "Thanks, Sarge-."

Byerly and Whilite were ready to move on when Gordon asked after the NCO primarily, "-Hey, did the dittos really get Soap?.."

"Soap", as the name had been hung on him, or Corporal Ivory had indeed been "gotten".

Neither Whilite nor Byerly had seen it happen, but when 3rd Platoon had rallied Sergeant Emmerson had reported it to them mastering himself and still every bit in the fight, but clearly shaken below the hardened surface.

Ivory's fire team had been covering the movement of the team that composed the other half of 4th Squad when a bold-spirited Regult pilot would not take the hint that two anti-mecha rockets were intended to provide.

From the unimportant details Whilite had gotten later through Byerly from Emmerson, it was unclear whether the Battle Pod had actually seen Ivory's fire team, or if it was just charging through engrossed in the hunt- but the end result had been the same. Ivory had not been as quick in displacing from his fire team's position as his subordinates and had been crushed underfoot by the Regult.

Driven by the same mecha that had killed the corporal and in retreat from the area under the warning of the Gnerls on ground-attack approach, PFCs Wurth and Carnes had sworn to Sgt. Emmerson, and then SSG. Byerly, and then _later_ to Whilite that there was no question of Ivory's instantaneous death nor of their ability to immediately recover his body.

None of their superiors had insinuated cowardice or failure to come to Soap's aide- but Rangers did not make a practice of leaving their fallen behind.

Even core principles had to give way to reality though. –One Ranger dead, as unpalatable as it was, was still preferable to three.

-And other platoons _had_ lost more.

"Yeah -.", Byerly confirmed, "Part of the business, but so is _payback_."

Crawley muttered, "-Man, that's _fucked up_ …"

"Yeah.", agreed Gordon.

At least they wouldn't be at each other it seemed to Byerly, and yeah- it was _fucked up_.

-But that was it. No more profound reason sometimes than it just being _part of the business._

"Hey, El-Tee-.", Crawley asked, looking at his lieutenant through the bandages that partially covered his face, "What's up with the ASC dudes, sir?"

Whilite shrugged and replied honestly, "Don't know yet. Cap's figuring that out now."

Crawley shook his head again with the injustice he then verbalized, "So, Soap _gets it_ , Gordon gets a couple new assholes, and I get half-turned into a Whopper and they skate outta it unscratched? _That ain't right_ , El-Tee."

Whilite recalled his initial exchange with ASC Staff Sergeant Alvarez hours earlier at their first meeting and assured his Ranger, "They'd taken their beating already, Crawley. –And since when does what's _right_ have anything to do with anything? Rest up now- we're gonna need all our peter-pushers pushin' peter in the theater…"

Byerly followed Whilite on the exit, saying over her shoulder to back her lieutenant, "-Yeah, _dick metaphors_ –like El-Tee said."

Levity, as necessary as it had been, seemed suddenly in poor taste to both Whilite and Byerly as they stepped through the crudely hung tarps that served as a door of sorts for the tunnel niche that functioned as the makeshift infirmary and came almost nose-to-nose with Lieutenants Hall and Fenton of 2nd and 4th Platoons respectively.

LT Hall had sustained the most wounded to his platoon out of all of those in Echo Company, all varying degrees of non-life threatening that would be macho, boast-worthy scars in three weeks' time. –But he'd also lost his senior NCO, Staff Sergeant Krona and the company's notorious "card shark", PFC MacGregor at the same time.

 _Lost_ it seemed to Whilite as he met with Byerly the other officers on the narrow, elevated walkway to the side of the unfinished tunnel's rail bed was an odd, sterilizing term for how the two Rangers had died by report of "soldier's talk". The Regults engaged the previous night had quickly learned that the thermal-masking elements of the Rangers' body armor deprived them of clear targets to track and engage- so by the end of the fight they had turned to their lesser, dual autocannon armaments to saturate areas the pilots _suspected_ the Rangers to be.

Whether the Zentraedi Warriors had been unique to their kind and "forward thinking", or if it had simply been coincidence- they had loaded the ammunition hoppers of their mecha with fragmentation rounds better suited for "soft" targets and not the armor-piercing variety that would have been appropriate for mecha or hardened vehicles.

The end result had been the same.

In Gordon's instance, a proximity-fuzed fragmentation round had exploded to his rear (literally and figuratively) as he'd been on the retreat with his fire team, producing the wounds he now suffered from.

In Krona and MacGregor's case, the round or _rounds_ exploding had been much nearer and the result unescapably fatal in the most gruesome terms. Whilite and Byerly had seen the corporal and a PFC from Krona's squad before their visit to the infirmary as the two men had been desperately trying to remove dried human blood and clinging bits of flesh from their body armor out of the sight of others who had witnessed and were not in need of reminding.

"How are Crawley and Gordon?", Hall asked Whilite, relieving the 3rd Platoon officer of the awkward burden of initiating a conversation.

"They're Crawley and Gordon.", Whilite said, offering a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket to both Hall and Fenton as he took one for himself, "-The dittos only had to wound `em. –They figured they'd finish each other off, I suppose."

Hall, smelling strongly of many cigarettes smoked recently declined the offer of another lest cancer do what the previous night had not, but LT Fenton accepted.

If Hall's 2nd Platoon had taken the night's prize for the most jarring deaths, then Fenton's 4th Platoon had taken it for the most unsettling. They had by chance been in the thickest, most unrelenting area of the skirmish in the woodland outside of the Brasilia International Airport, but had been causing far more grief to the enemy than what they had been receiving when the urgent order to withdraw had been given. Deepest into the fight and farthest from the established rallying point, 4th Platoon had been under the greatest pressure to move with speed out of the area that the enemy obliterated with plasma napalm under a minute after the order to retreat had been given.

Fenton's 3rd Squad simply had not shown up at the rallying point, nor was there response from any of the six Rangers that composed it to radio call.

The woodland that had been was by this time a broad field of boiling puddles of glass, making any kind of meaningful search impossible.

Captain Nguyen had made the call to withdraw with the obligatory promise that a search would be performed later- but even at the time there were no expectations that Fenton's 3rd Squad was to be found alive.

-Still, Rangers did not leave their dead behind, so the loss carried with it the dangerous and solemn duty that would serve Krona and MacGregor as well.

"You've got everyone in Third Platoon volunteering to go out looking.", Whilite said lighting his cigarette as he spoke while Fenton took one being offered, "-The whole company, really… So when are we on the hump?"

"Captain won't say yet.", Fenton replied, "But he's not gonna let everyone go on a recovery sweep."

Whilite was relieved to hear the other lieutenant use the term _recovery_ versus _rescue_ \- at least he had a grasp on what to realistically expect.

"-No, but that doesn't mean that everyone won't honestly volunteer."

" _Everyone._.", Fenton laughed darkly, "Seems like a few more fights like last night and there might not be enough _everyone_ left to form a fire team. We're going against full-size ditto infantry and mecha with small arms and anti-mecha rockets. Any way you slice it, attrition is gonna be a bitch on us."

"Seeing as how, we tripped over near a whole platoon of ASC when we thought for sure we were the only shooters left in town.", Whilite pointed out having done the tripping, "Maybe there's others creepin' around still out there."

Hall was immediately unconvinced, "Yeah, Ed, you found some ASC types, but that doesn't mean they're gonna stick around- or that the old man _wants_ `em sticking around. You remember sweeping the northern districts. –I'm pretty damn sure Captain Nguyen does. The damn ASC was almost as dangerous as the dittos."

"Well, circumstances have changed a little, haven't they, Dave?", Whilite countered, "Maybe it's only _a little better_ , but still better ASC with us than going it alone."

"Marginally.", Fenton conceded, "But Cap' won't leave `em tending the store while we're out bringing our people home."

"-And a platoon of ASC- even commandos- will buy us maybe one or two more skirmishes like last night before we're combat ineffective.", Hall added showing the twitch of needing the cigarette he had declined, "We're just not equipped to brawl repeatedly with Zentraedi regulars. At best we're on the shit-end of the stick."

Whilite could not honestly argue with Hall and Fenton. By realistic measurement, the operation the night before had gone well given the risks involved and haste in which it had been planned and executed – but it had cost Echo Company nine Rangers dead, and over twice as many wounded.

The enemy garrison by contrast had committed only a fraction of its strength to the fight that had ensued, and while its casualty list at the end of the operation was longer- the enemy had the numbers to lose.

Echo Company's "successes" would bleed the unit dry before they were more than an annoyance to the Zentraedi. It was the simple math equation that was Brasilia now.

Still, Whilite knew that neither Hall nor Fenton were advocating the throwing-in of the towel yet –but an alternative had to be found.

"Singh had a thought on that yesterday.", Whilite said, recalling the conversation by its sudden relevance, "There are still a lot of Cyclones lying around Homestead wanting for use. –And Sri's boys did a pretty good job holding their own against the dittos, didn't they?"

The handful of Gurkhas remaining from the 70th Gurkha Rifles _had_ fared well, not having lost a single rifleman or having sustained so much as a scratch. _Machismo_ -driven argument aside, the Gurkhas were no stronger, braver, or better trained than the Rangers of Echo Company- nor were they sons of Krypton either. Their edge in battle and the reason for their null losses had been the Cyclones that their legacy unit had adopted.

"Something to think about, I guess.", Hall agreed after mulling over a moment and looking to Fenton for some kind of agreement, suggested, "-Add to our strengths, play on the dittos' weaknesses. It isn't the worst idea I've heard anyway…"

"Better than the hate-fucking last night turned into at the least.", Whilite said having not thought his words through before voicing them and in seeing Byerly wince slightly, quickly back-peddled with, "- _Sorry, Mike- I didn't mean to…"_

Lieutenant Fenton, showing for a moment a more acute version of the expression Byerly had flashed shook his head dismissively, "Forgotten-. It's like I keep saying to my people- just gotta rock up."

Whilite could taste the distinct flavors of boot and Brazilian soil from having put his own foot into his mouth, and saw no need to linger on the chances of a second helping.

"We're headed to the CP. –Gonna see about getting the Old Man to let Third Platoon tag along with you on the recovery, and maybe pitch the Cyclone idea if I can dig Sri up-."

Fenton nodded agreement for Hall and himself, replying, "We'll be along in a few. –Just gonna make the rounds with our wounded."

"We were twelve kliks northwest of Brasilia when the dittos attacked.", Staff Sergeant Alvarez said, having consumed the full contents of one MRE ration package and opened a second with the intent to inflict heavy casualties. Like he had revealed of his men of The Army of the Southern Cross, 24th Mountain Regiment, Hotel Company, 2nd Platoon- Alvarez had been living in the field for the better part of a week on quarter-rations. Malnourishment had not become an issue yet, but hunger had been a nearly constant weight upon them.

Captain Nguyen had extended every hospitality he had available to Echo Company's Gemini Coalition allies. The senior Ranger had insisted after a short, preliminary debriefing that determined that the Recon commandoes had no intelligence of any enemy activity that might have been an immediate threat to the two units that they eat and make use of the base camp's limited but evolving wash facilities. Hot bunking rack time rotation had even been figured roughly by SGM MacDonald and approved gratefully for his men by SSG Alvarez

Alvarez and the next ranking NCO, SGT Carol had washed, shaved, and eaten having first seen their troops do the same. So now as a number of the ASC was crashing on cots for the first scheduled sleep for weeks hospitality was seeking reciprocity in the way of more information on how Echo Company and Hotel's 2nd Platoon had come to meet.

Sergeant Major MacDonald offered Alvarez a cup of modestly hot coffee in an aluminum mess kit cup as the ASC staff sergeant continued his exposition.

"-We'd been out on a hard target sweep for malcontent units that we knew to be hitting some of our OPs and patrols monitoring the northern traffic in and out of Brasilia-. -Standard stuff to put the fear of God into `em. We sprang a few really sweet raids on their camps, displaced 'em, stalked and hit `em while they were still on the move- even got out in front of `em once and snared them in an ambush because they were busy looking over their shoulders for us. Whittled a hundred or so down to fifty in three contacts, and halved that again in three days. –Point wasn't to kill `em all, y'know…"

"Strong-arm psychological warfare, basically…", Staff Sergeant Byerly expounded.

3rd Platoon's lieutenant and senior NCO had slipped in while Alvarez had been engrossed in the telling of his unit's epic, and the Rangers around him captivated in the hearing of it and in filling in the details with their own experience-fueled imaginations.

"Yeah, exactly.", Alvarez affirmed, a slight grin coming to the corners his mouth,"-Sounds cooler when you say it like that…. Can I borrow that?"

"No, but the cost per use is _real_ reasonable.", Byerly replied offering Alvarez a cigarette.

Whilite knew Byerly's sass as though it was a standard ration that all of 3rd Platoon received daily- which in fact they did. He was going to warn Alvarez with that grin of his as much, when the lieutenant realized his sergeant was wearing the same quirky expression.

"-No thanks- don't smoke.", Alvarez said declining the cigarette before continuing, "So we're about to turn twenty-five or so into ten _or less_ who we figure we'll cut loose to tell the tale to their friends when the attack comes- the _real_ attack, I mean."

"-We're familiar with this part of the story.", Whilite said sounding short enough to surprise himself and drawing a sharp look from Byerly _who still had that damn grin on her face…._

"-Sorry, Sergeant- go on."

Alvarez shrugged, "Well, we lost contact with that group and never saw `em again really as we were trying to get back to Homestead- we'd lost comms with the JOC, Regiment everyone. We did manage to bump into every group of pissed-off dittos on the way back though. Multiple random contacts, _real intense_ close-quarters shit. We lost our lieutenant and two others, but eventually we got back to base. The place had been abandoned and ransacked- the supply depot and armories emptied and what wasn't taken was burned in a hurry. We took what little was salvageable and made off with it."

Whilite thought back to the nerve-peeling process that had been surveying, collecting, loading, and transporting supplies from the RDF storage areas also on Homestead a now-distant 48 hours or more before. His recollection was filled with the maddening task of moving too much material with too few men over too great a distance with even fewer men providing overwatch against an onslaught of malcontent Zentraedi that he had been certain would come flooding the smashed post or ambush the awkward supply convoy on broken roads at any second.

"We never got into the ASC areas.", Whilite said, "It would have been a longer haul, and there wasn't a need. Why didn't you probe the RDF side?"

"We'd meant to.", Alvarez explained, "-But there were indications of activity in the RDF compound and we had what we needed immediately for the raid on the airport we'd planned. –You know the rest, sirs."

Byerly said to Whilite referring to the last of Alvarez's tale, "That'd be a lark if that had been us, El-Tee... Would'a saved us a real cheek-clencher last night at least."

"Yeah-", Whilite replied noticing that the two staff sergeants were eye locked _again_ , "Had the stars only aligned…"

Whilite realized to his own displeasure that he was less interested in SSG Alvarez's report of his unit's activities up to encountering 3rd Platoon mid-operation than in Alvarez himself- or rather, _Byerly's_ interest.

Alvarez had shown every required military courtesy in speaking with Echo Company's officers and SGM MacDonald, demonstrating subordination in rank- but there was something that was rubbing Whilite the wrong way about the ASC Mountain Recon NCO.

-And then in a flash, he had it.

Alvarez, with his sharp, and admittedly handsome Latin features and an MMA champion's build straining against the confines of a cotton/polyester blend BDU t-shirt was everything that high school and university girlfriends had _drooled over_ \- and everything that Whilite's fit, but lanky, mostly Scottish, pale and white bread appearance was not.

A measure of self-loathing washed through Whilite's veins hotly as he shamed himself for the pettiness of thinking that way of the other man who he barely knew because he happened to look like a Calvin Klein underwear model with miraculously perfect teeth and…

 _Damnit, there it was again…._

"CP, OP One-.", came SGT Harris's voice clearly over the speaker of a walkie-talkie left atop a neat stack of C2 gear that had not yet been connected and configured in Echo Company's new command center, "-I need Actual."

All who had been focused on Alvarez's tale heard clearly the telling tone of the sniper team's senior member and were instantaneously attentive.

Captain Nguyen motioned to the walkie-talkie, snapping his fingers with the clear imperative to which SGM MacDonald responded by picking up the radio and tossing it to the company CO.

"-Actual. Over.", Nguyen said calmly though nerves around were suddenly on edge.

"Need you topside, sir.", Harris replied, "Nothing dangerous, I don't think- but something you gotta see. Over."

Nguyen's expression was a puzzled one, as were the expressions of all hearing Harris's cryptic report. –But at least there was the assurance that it was not a threat.

"Coming topside.", Nguyen said, "Give us a minute or two to get there. Over."

"No hurry, Actual. I think this might go on for a while. Over."

Captain Nguyen slid off the crate he was sitting on and nodded for all in his presence to join him as he headed toward the scaffolding that provided access to the unfinished subway station's mezzanine that in turn gave access to the steep escalator shaft to street level. That climb, plus an additional five levels through the stairwell of the gutted office building standing directly overhead would bring the "expedition" to the observation post from which SGT Harris had made his report.

Only SGM MacDonald picked up his M-35 rifle that leaned against a concrete wall nearby as he passed, the other officers and NCOs went carrying only their side-arms.

SGT Harris had promised no danger, but MacDonald was one who always erred on the side of preparedness.

Staff Sergeant Byerly had been falling in to follow the group that included SSG Alvarez when she had become aware that Whilite was lingering behind- and by extension caused her to linger as well.

The group led by Captain Nguyen was on the level above and by their fading voices and footfalls approaching what would have been the station's escalator had war not intervened before either who had stayed behind spoke.

"Was there something we're staying on, El-Tee?", Byerly asked sounding slightly guarded.

"I don't know, Staff Sergeant-.", Whilite replied, "-Is there something?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir-."

Whilite laughed, partly trying to defuse the tension that was quickly ramping up to an uncomfortable level, "Well, then you're the only one unaware of it!.. What's with the… -The _googly eyes?_.."

" _Googly eyes_ , sir?", Byerly asked, sounding more formal than ever.

"You and Alvarez- we barely know guy."

Byerly edged out of her position in rank slightly as she replied, "Is there some kind of problem, _Lieutenant?_ "

"I thought I just asked the same question.", Whilite said.

Byerly contained noticeable fire with regulation civility, saying, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"If it'll move things along, _granted._ "

Both barrels went off.

" _What's your problem?!"_ , Byerly snapped with an energy that nearly put Whilite back onto his heels, "-We're neck-deep in the shit for a week, coming off of a month of kickin' in doors and _starting shit_ before that- and you're getting up my ass about _smiling at a cute guy?!..._ You got some _huevos_ there El-Tee, seeing as to how many times _you and every other mud-roller in this platoon have checked out the way the booty fills the BDUs!…_ "

Whilite was suddenly in his high school principal's office again.

"- _Have not!…_ "

"Have too!", Byerly fired back, slapping her right hip emphatically with each syllable, " _HAVE FUCK-ING TOO! -If looks could impregnate, I'd have twenty baby-daddies by now!.._ Do I say anything though? - _No._ Do I tell every Private I tie my boots in front of that I'm too tired for an eye-fucking? - _No._ –They do their jobs, I do mine, and so long as everyone stays squarely within the lines of regulations, _the Green Machine keeps rolling on._ – _But I smiled and made eyes at another NCO…_ "

Whilite was no longer in the principal's office, he was out at the woodshed having picked his own switch for the licking he was taking.

"So, El-Tee-.", Byerly continued, demonstrating the leathery constitution that partially made her the great sergeant that Whilite considered her to be, "-Have I violated any regulations?"

"No, Staff Sergeant."

"Have I violated the Uniform Code of Conduct?"

 _"No, Staff Sergeant._ "

"Have I failed to perform any of my duties?"

 _"No, Staff Sergeant._ "

"Do you have any reason to suspect I will fail in my duties?"

"-Of course not…"

"Well then.", Byerly resolved, the storm having passed, "Will there be anything else, Lieutenant?"

Whilite felt obligated by rank to have the last word- but what that word was, he simply could not grasp.

"-Look, _just_ …."

" _Keep the beaver off the log?_ ", Byerly suggested.

"Yeah, something like that."

"-You ask so much of me, El-Tee."

Whilite felt the need to seek the company of others, and safety in their numbers from his senior NCO. He found himself leading the way up the scaffold to the mezzanine as quickly as possible- without looking rushed.

"We _never_ have to speak of this again."

"No problem, El-Tee.", Byerly agreed, "-He is hot though."

" _Really?.._ "

"Especially his butt. Talk about a _double-handful_ there…"

"I can't hear this anymore."

"You're just jealous that _his_ is nicer!"

"Did I mention that the whole _speaking freely_ thing was over?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

"-Good talk then."

"-What do you mean, _his butt is nicer than mine?..."_

 _"Soooo much better,_ El-Tee. _Orders of magnitude better…"_

It had been a long, but very informative five flights of stairs to the roof of the office building and OP-1 where Harris and Fuller had created a nest that bordered on comfortable.

The morning sun was well above Brasilia's beaten and slouching skyline and was driving the last cool dewiness from the air. A light breeze was blowing due east and in doing so was drawing the black cloud of smoke that still rose from the international airport to the southwest into stream of sooty haze. Lesser amounts of white smoke drifted from further west and where the parcel of woodland into which Echo Company and their ASC allies had had made their escape had been.

A plume of flame infused with glittering particles rose through the densest of the black smoke and was followed at several seconds by the crackling, popping report of distant explosions.

"We must have put a worse hurt on them than we thought, Captain.", Whilite said, genuinely surprised that the fires within the Zentraedi perimeter had been permitted to continue burning. The Zentraedi were not known for practicing great damage control or containment though.

"Yeah, that's something Lieutenant", SGT Harris agreed, "-But look _up_."

Whilite's and Byerly's necks craned to direct their eyes heavenward.

-And what a sight it was….

Through the deepest blue of the sky, an orb of light flashed intensely and subsided, followed by another in the same relative area, followed by another, and another.

As the initial shock of the sight thawed, Whilite searched the sky to find similar indications of orbital space combat visible in a broad band that appeared to arc the sky in an east to west direction.

"-That's gotta be our Fleet doing the shooting, right Captain?", Whilite asked.

"That would be the best guess.", Nguyen replied not able to confirm the suspicion, "-And it's a hell of a welcome sight."

-And it was, as was the distant, thin line of smoky fire that seemed to originate from a random point in the eastern sky and descend toward the horizon like a spider riding down on a strand of its own web-silk. Something massive falling out of orbit no doubt.

Whilite only hoped it was Zentraedi.

 **Durango, Mexico**

 _Meals and enemies were best consumed one bite at a time._

-So said the old Warrior's proverb.

Action General 1st Grade Hesthira's 9th Mechanized Corps had been spilling out of every pass and rolling down every eastern slope of the mountain range for hours now with the promise of more hours of the same before the whole unit would shake itself completely free of the jagged and extreme topography.

Hesthira had no idea of the name given to the range in the indigenous, micronian tongue- but the name his Warriors had come to call it had filtered through the chain of command to nestle in his ear- "The Saw Tooth Mountains". –Perhaps not the most carefully conceived name ever given by a Warrior to an alien landscape, but not inaccurate to be sure.

The mountains had claimed the lives of as many Warriors in the 9th Mechanized Corps' navigation of them as the first hour of actual combat with the micronians had. Insignificant losses overall, true- but losses that would have served a better purpose if they had been sustained in battle and not to deeply plunging hills of loose, baked earth and rock.

It was a matter of Fate's will that Hesthira had admitted long ago that even he was subject to as a corps commander.

In the open field though he had a measure of greater influence, and it was control that he wielded to its understood limits.

-And right now he controlled the gross movements of his corps as it consumed the retreating enemy's flank a bite at a time.

Hesthira had been briefed extensively, or at least to the extent that intelligence was available, on micronian mecha and military technology as well as tactical doctrine. As one could expect from a race that appeared to have neither embraced cloning nor autonomous servile artificial intelligence, great measures had been taken to maximize the combat effectiveness of every mecha or vehicle fielded while placing equal emphasis on survivability for the pilot or crew. This, and the prevailing approach to combat of conducting the fight from as great a distance as each particular platform and its weapon systems would afford was something that had been documented repeatedly from Supreme General Breetai's first encounters with this unremarkable species to the dwindling and last reports from units of Dolza's Imperial Fleet whose shamed remnants could still be found marooned on this world.

Hesthira had taken the accumulated intelligence and briefings for the most part on face value, reserving final judgment for himself and not discounting the variables of his enemy's motivation and skill that were so often the weightiest of factors in a battle's disposition.

-And the micronians had not disappointed.

One for one, Hesthira had seen with his own eyes how standard or artillery Regults were little to no match for most if not all the micronian forms of Robotechnology and military vehicle encountered so far. Glaug Officer Pods fared somewhat better in most conditions, the heavily armored _Nousjadeul-Gar_ combat suits better still, though not with the superb performance of the Serhot-Ran's _Nacht-Rau_ power armor. –All of which added up to adhering predominantly to the battle doctrine that had served _norghil_ Zentraedi for generations.

Attack in numbers.

Attack with speed.

Attack with aggression.

Hesthira had refined his tactical principles considerably beyond these simple precepts, and he applied his refinements rigorously- but the three central pillars remained.

Free of the mountains, the Action General had directed his Warriors to rush on smaller micronian units, enveloping and destroying the smaller elements of the alien whole with the weight of numbers. The enemy, he found could not outpace or outmaneuver his ground forces on an open field- and their advantages of artillery and long-range weaponry were negated when forced to engage in close quarters with a foe.

Similarly, even their specialized and admittedly impressive air power was of diminished to null value when the enemy and Hesthira's units meshed. The enemy's air advantage could be precluded altogether when forced to contend with Gnerl squadrons and Nacht Rau in quantity of either or combination of both.

Hesthira had also discovered quickly that tactics discovered and fine-tuned long ago in campaigns against rogue norghil and Invid were equally effective against these micronians. Area saturation by heavy missile from supporting warships in low orbit, followed by immediate air assault by Gnerl fighters from the same had a pronounced, withering effect on the alien units and their ability to fight effectively. –And when used against micronian artillery or missile battery positions, the effect was equally staggering to the enemy and with all the beneficial windfalls coming to the 9th Mechanized Corps that removal of those micronian assets provided.

When these attacks were followed by intense assault moving to close range by company or multi-company sized elements of the 9th Mechanized Corps, the result all this day had been either the scattering or obliteration of the alien units.

Much of this had to do with the courage, initiative, and skill of field grade officers down to the platoon level. Hesthira did not delude himself to think that he could ever apply his own mastered and balanced aggression at that level, so he was vigilant in imparting the need to identify and groom those warriors to his division, regiment, and even company commanders.

Cracks in the enemy's cohesion and effectiveness began often at a low level, sometimes even a single skirmish. If Hesthira had commanders at that level who knew to look for and to exploit those opportunities, he knew he would have advantages to exploit at his level of Corps Commander.

For Hesthira and the 9th Mechanized Corps, the day had started with initial frustrations and set-backs. At the battle group level, Fleet had failed to anticipate and assign adequate warship support for field operations. This was not uncommon, even in The 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl as officers who fought campaigns from command bubbles were more keen to envision and seek out fleet-level action and not concern themselves with Warriors who muddied their armor.

Coordination of consistent Fleet support had not been achieved when Hesthira's Warriors had broken out of the mountain chain and would not likely have been of use in preventing the dropping of a massive conventional bomb by the micronians that had leveled one of their own small population centers and the better part of one of Hesthira's regiments in a single, awesome blast.

The realization in Fleet's command chain shifted with that moment and a series of others similar to it all along the axis of advance that the battle and claims to glory were to be found _below_.

Support became abundant for Hesthira and his Warriors, increasing substantially as the shock of the powerful conventional bomb was still thawing within those who had witnessed it and survived. The template for effective and aggressive advance was quickly established thereafter with adequate coordination between Hesthira's vanguard units and Fleet to direct orbital missile fire and fighter support established tenuously.

And so the cooperation between Fleet and the 9th Mechanized Corps had functioned for many hours, late into the day, through dusk, and into the night with Fleet's missiles pulverizing areas of micronian unit concentration or strong points of resistance before Hesthira's mecha moved in to complete the massacre under heavy Gnerl support overhead.

Until-.

 _Something_ had started to happen within the Fleet above.

Command channels open to all sanctioned commanders at the appropriate level of rank during combined action efforts had suddenly become glutted with frantic and confused messages, and then had gone silent as non-essential access was cut. In the moments that followed, tactical officers aboard low-orbiting vessels informed their earthbound counterparts in tones of forced calm that support operations were being temporarily halted as was evident in parallel on the tactical channels directing Gnerl squadrons whose courses and tasking was redirected mid-descent into hurried return to their base ships.

Whatever portion of restricting comms-channel access to select commanders was necessity to preserve uncluttered communication and what portion was to compartmentalize the panic inherent in being under surprise attack was unclear. –However, the evidence of a fleet action that had not been planned for became quickly visible to all in the dark western skies not yet softened by the hints first light in the east.

The flare of clustered, catastrophic explosions blemished a particular region of the sky, marring its inkiness and muting out the pinprick light of stars with their subsiding glow that lingered like the fading aura of dying embers. The distinct flash and streak of heavy energy weapons fire streaked the canopy from all points indicating by their general direction and convergence the distant area at and below the western horizon where the battle's center had formed.

Hesthira had noticed the martial aurora pulsing across the heavens, but was not captured by the spectacle. His interest had immediately become the redirection of his orbiting support's attention _outward_ rather than downward.

Whether the micronian warriors and their commander situated to direct battle wherever he may have been planning on or even aware of the impending fleet action that was now transpiring, they too noticed the immediate drop-off in fire and fighter support for the 9th Mechanized Corps. Their commander too had field grade officers trained to recognize and exploit advantages as they arose, and there was no missing the opportunity presented to them now.

As the final waves of heavy missiles from Hesthira's "dedicated support" vessels set the portions of the field and the horizon to the Action General's north aglow with the rapid and irregular strobe of their detonations, the micronian artillery began to respond closer to where the corps commander's Glaug stood in the company of his staff. Whether the alien artillery and missile batteries had been kept silent in reserve or for some planned, mass barrage to support another attempt by the enemy commander to break contact- it was unclear. –But their presence became known by Hesthira's leading regiments as curtains of fire swept diagonally through his lines northeast to southwest opening swaths through the dense force movement.

Had he the ear of a single destroyer commander, Hesthira could have had him identify the originating points of fire and crater the landscape, burning anything that was left into fused glass with following Gnerl strikes with plasma napalm missiles. Destroyer commanders were more interested in combatting enemy vessels at the moment than they were in silencing artillery though. Hesthira knew his Warriors were for the moment on their own, able only to hurl wild counter-battery fire from Artillery Regults that were under the immense psychological pressure of attack.

What Hesthira was wary of and what he could not allow under any circumstances was the break in contact that the enemy commander was clearly trying to achieve. If the enemy could break away and open the land between himself and the concentration of the 9th Mechanized Corps' units, he might be inclined to use those weapons that he would not have considered while micronian and Te'Dak Tohl forces were grappling.

"Grom", Hesthira said to his trusted personal aide and action officer, "Couple four Regult Heavy Artillery companies with two of the best assault companies you can bring together quickly. –Have them move outside of our lines of advance with the sole task of performing counter-battery action. Even if we do not destroy the enemy's guns and missile batteries, we can silence or minimalize their effectiveness by keeping them on the move. This will have to be sufficient until we regain our support from the Fleet."

"Yes, Lord.", Action Commander Grom replied, "-I already have particular units in mind for the assignment."

Hesthira drew back from the field immediately before him, taking in the progress being made by Bren's corps to his northeast.

As Hesthira's 9th Mechanized Corps had been moving at a remarkable pace that had even impressed its commander through "The Saw Tooth Mountains" to position itself to open a second line of action on the micronian commander's left flank, Action General 1st Grade Bren's 74th Heavy Assault Corps had been butting heads with the micronians all along and smashing its way south over open land.

Hesthira had long since abandoned trying to meet on common ground with Bren as it applied to tactical doctrine. Bren had none, other than applying the force needed to flatten everything and every enemy in his path.

Hesthira had seen Bren march fresh divisions over stalled areas of the battle line still thick with his own Warriors for the benefit of maintaining forward momentum overall. It had been said with justification if not slight exaggeration by officers and Warriors in his own corps that Bren preferred to swim into battle in the blood of his own than dirty himself with the dust raised by marching.

-But for reasons that Hesthira could not fathom completely, Bren's officers and Warriors were fiercely loyal to him. Those who survived multiple campaigns under the action general _were_ likely to have more boast-worthy scars and stories than most Zentraedi- Te'Dak Tohl or norghil. This bloody glory was a status symbol worth dying for- a precept that Bren instilled down through the ranks into the lowliest warrior grades.

Bren this day and for days before had been doing all he could to create the ideal swimming conditions for himself in trail of his corps' leading edge units. He had bludgeoned and kicked the micronian units before him ever southward, either grinding them into nothing before the improved norghil replenishment units he kept consistently at the front, or throwing them back over and over until exhausted they could be ground into the landscape.

Sub-General Jekketh, fond of Bren's uncomplicated effectiveness and giving broad direction from his command ship somewhere out in the alien world's high orbit or beyond showed nothing but pleasure in Bren's regular reports of land gained and estimates of alien units destroyed.

There was no _displeasure_ indicated by Jekketh in receiving the same manner of report from Hesthira whose gains and accomplishments were admittedly less, but also with on average half the casualties of Bren's corps.

Jekketh was desirable as a commander in Hesthira's mind in that he was not determined to dictate tactical principle to his subordinates- he only was concerned with their effectiveness.

-And Bren was effective, even if his methods differed from Hesthira's

By necessity, Hesthira had forced the time out of Bren to speak and loosely plan the time and geographic point at which they would join their efforts. These were details that now were clearly more important to Hesthira than to his counterpart.

Bren, every bit aware of Hesthira's position and unit movement as Hesthira was of Bren's, was not showing any indication of altering the pace of advance to effectively incorporate the 9th Mechanized Corps.

As it had been planned, or at least as Hesthira had proposed the meeting to Bren, the 74th Heavy Assault Corps would maintain its east-to-west line, moving south and would be joined at the west end of its line by the 9th Corps lined north-to-south and pushing east. Determination could then be made on any number of alternatives in tactical maneuver to inflict the greatest harm on the micronians.

As it stood, Bren's corps was picking up its pace in pursuit of the micronians and would be well beyond the planned rallying point when Hesthira and his corps arrived. Hesthira would then have to select from the options of admiring Bren's right flank as it passed, or making a broad turn south and racing to catch up and keep with Bren's axis of advance.

Neither promised direct contact with the micronians' main force, and less desirably offered Bren's Warriors an almost endless source of boasting. –That was of course if Hesthira adhered to the plan that Bren had clearly abandoned.

"Grom, contact Naku and have him immediately detach his division from the main force.", Hesthira directed, "He will move at maximum speed southeast creating a second line of advance for us as we continue to press on our advance, partially covering his left as we do. Let's see if we can salvage the merge with Bren and push the alien's flank guards into his path."

"Very good, Lord.", Grom complied, "Should I have him contact you to confer?"

"Negative, Grom-. Get Naku moving now and we can refine his movement as we go. Bren will not slow his pace, so we don't have that luxury either."

"Understood, Lord."

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt let the sensation wash over him as the shrill tone in his ears- his Regult warning him of incoming projectiles- changed to a chilling of his spine to ice that quickly spread to his extremities.

He did not recall how many times in the past two, almost three days now, he had felt the exact same penetrating cold, like splinters of ice- but each time he had been certain it would be the last, and each time for whatever reason that Fate saw fit he had come out on the other side of danger.

Tahlt now feared he was growing familiar with death- accustomed to it. In that familiarity there was the sense of the true fear that had beads of cold sweat standing out on his skin. He feared that Fate might take that sense of familiarity as one of entitlement to continuously slip the same dangers that claimed others around him.

Entitlement was pride cloaked in circumstance, and Fate (so Warriors' talk said) favored very few that flaunted pride.

Relief.

As the plunge of scores of micronian artillery projectiles were marked in the dark and smoke-murky sky by bursts that told Tahlt that these were the worst kind- containing dozens of smaller explosive charges to scatter like deadly hail- he felt only desperation to keep living.

Fate could not fault him for a sense of entitlement or pride for that-.

Fate did not have to spare him again either.

Leading a Regult squad of warriors whose names he had not attempted to commit yet to memory on the left flank of a hastily reconstituted platoon at full charge under command of a Te'Dak Tohl lieutenant whose name _may have been_ Foga- Tahlt did all he could do. –Did what The Warrior's Code and Fate demanded of him…

Tahlt trusted the foot-fall of his Regult at full charge speed to ambulatory control system as he focused his attention and the mecha's twin particle beams on the micronian mecha and vehicles whose unit flank they were trying to round.

Light intensification with IR and sensor integration coupled with the now relatively flat and open land made spotting the enemy easy despite clear and effective attempts by them to jam the Regults' sensors with electromagnetic countermeasures. There was simply nowhere for them to cover or hide.

Covering or hiding was not the intent of the micronians now- retreat and escape was, and for good reason. A general collapse and withdrawal of their entire army to undetermined points south was now in progress and as such units that at the beginning of the day had considered themselves along the "front lines" were now seeing themselves in the favorable position of rear guard elements.

Lines of contact had devolved into running gun battles using primarily energy weapons, both sides having exhausted their complement of missiles and kinetic munitions hours earlier. In this mode of fighting, Tahlt knew the enemy's heavy EM jamming to be a play of desperation and quite futile. _His_ side had numbers and more guns, now the only attribute of real relevance- and Zentraedi units had shown consistently to be swifter and more agile on the move.

Tahlt knew as he was sure that the commander of the micronian unit with whom his nameless Warriors were exchanging fire that this particular skirmish was entering its final trade in moves, and that the outcome was almost certainly decided in favor of the Zentraedi.

-But first….

Tahlt's Regult jerked violently as it was battered from all sides by the detonation of raining sub-munitions that had finally completed their journey from a fire base somewhere over the southeastern horizon. The sub-lieutenant was not certain that the mecha's feet were even contacting ground as it seemed to ride an invisible, cresting wave of explosions. The memory of a mountain road liquefying beneath him returned in vivid detail and it was only the strong, overriding desire to be through the storm of high explosives that provided him with focus.

Explosively ejected dirt and rock clattered against the Regult's outer hull as a Combat Pod in the squad ahead of Tahlt's took a bomblet to the thin armor squarely atop the pilot's compartment. Terilium alloy spall joined the nerve-grating congress of startling sounds, adding the distinctive _zing_ of metal pelting metal as the Regult that Tahlt had seen struck toppled end-over-end, frozen in stride of running and with its body split and opened crudely like a grotesque flower in full blossom.

A Glaug's weapon-arm arced through the field of Tahlt's viewscreen with a portion of the mecha to which it had been connected still attached speaking grimly of Fate's disposition of the lieutenant whose name was clearly no longer important. His may have been one of the terrorized screams cut short by destroyed communications equipment as the warriors screaming were destroyed swiftly with the mecha carrying them.

Numbed with the anticipation of sure death himself, Tahlt felt the waves of crazed chaos and panic flow through him like wind through tall grass. His mind shielded itself in narrowing simply to the operation of his Regult and the directing of fire from its particle beam cannons wildly at an enemy that was returning the act in kind.

The world around Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt stabilized and the ground beneath the feet of his Regult became solid again as the storm of explosions all around stopped as abruptly as it had begun. –And again, Tahlt found himself alive.

-Alive, but with the distinct and increasingly familiar sense that he was ranking Warrior in a rabble of shattered Regult units.

The trade of fire between the surviving Regults, the exact number of which Tahlt was unsure, and the micronian force whose flank finally appeared to be passing to the left was a roughly equal one. Even Tahlt's opponents suggested a certain symmetry as they appeared to be the micronian-adopted variant of the Regult with their added weapons systems now depleted reducing them to nothing more than additional weight to hinder the performance of what was originally a nimble mecha form.

What Tahlt saw in all of this as the fog of certain violent death lifted from him was a cue to engage _directly._ The micronians only advantage here and now was their artillery, which they had shown they would not use if their warriors were in the mix with Zentraedi forces.

It was a solid argument for a decision that Tahlt had already made, not actually sure that he was indeed in the position of authority to be making the decision- but the truth was that at the very least direct attack presented the possibility that if death came for him or his Warriors, they would be facing the enemy delivering it.

"Wheel left and reform a wedge on me!..."

Hell was a _very_ real place.

It had come to the world of the living and it was all around.

The sky above burned in bursts of nuclear flame and thunderbolts of radiant blue in the same tone as the chains of ice that bound Satan himself. The world burned below in ghastly patches of glowing red like flares of burning oil that popped and sparked with the innumerable explosions that dotted the landscape in a ceaseless dance of infernal light.

And Winters was in the center of it.

It was no surprise really- he had always expected to end up there anyway- or at least for as long as he could remember contemplating such things.

It was just that his run through mortality had seemed so brief and that both the good and evil he had accumulated in his ledger so unremarkable.

But after all, wasn't that what made it Hell?

It wasn't actually Hell, of course- Winters knew as much- but perhaps this was the "sneak peek", like the coming attractions at the cinema. Something in the way of promises for the world to come.

-Or perhaps it was just coming up on thirty-six hours without sleep, propped up by "go pills", caffeine and nicotine and with no end worth looking forward to in sight.

-Or maybe it was just the company...

"So, _Kemosabe_ , I'm dyin' to hear about Tanto kickin' your ass-. What's with that? -And you don't have to water down the details… I can handle the gruesome."

Since Knight Hawk Squadron had picked up the duty of escorting and covering a ground support package including Lt Col Mathias's Crimson Cavaliers, he had dreaded the possibility that the ASC-AF squadron leader had heard about the- _tiff_ \- between he and Dalton hours before. Silence through the flight with the exception of procedural comms-chat had only heightened it.

-But less than three minutes out from their assigned "kill box" to support, Winters had developed a sense of optimism.

" _Dying_ is a poor choice of words when you choose to pluck the nerves of the chap providing you top-cover, Mojo.", Winters said flatly.

There was a pause, but then Mathias persisted, "True, so this may be my last chance-. Did you find yourself getting a little moist when he was administering the bitch-slapping, or does it take more than that to light the fire?"

There was a general giggle- high school girl-like in its maturity- coming across on the common operational frequency being used, and it was clear that there would be no waving-off or taking the high road.

"Buster didn't _kick my ass_ ", Winters clarified, "-He just got in the first shot. – _And a bloody dirty one_ , I'll have you know."

"Pissed yourself, eh?"

"He didn't kick my ass."

"Oh _yes, I did._ ", Dalton interjected, holding his section in trail to port in a covering position.

"You're hardly an impartial witness.", Winters pointed out, "So…. _Preacher-_ what's the verdict? -And remember the big chap's position on honesty."

Caught off guard, it took Major "Preacher" Wayne a moment to reply with, "-Well, maybe not a _kicking_ , but certainly a _paddling_ …"

"So Jack likes spankings then?", Mathias asked, finding another salacious detail to exploit.

" _He did not kick my ass..."_

Vice, from his station off of Winters' starboard wing chipped in, "Sorry boss, if it had gone on any longer you'da had Buster's boot laces hangin' outta your nostrils."

"You're saying that because you won money.", Winters pointed out.

" _A lotta money_ Boss. I'll give you a loan so you can buy back some pride."

Mathias gleefully capped the exchange with, "-It just breaks my heart when you girls fight like that, Jack…"

A real urge to simply leave The Crimson Cavaliers to fend for themselves was taking firm root in Winters when the AWACS with tactical command over the operational area intervened.

"Desperado to Tailgate 43 flight, we show you ninety seconds from Kill Box Seven. Stand by to chop your ground attack package to JSTARS C2. Tailgate 43 ground package, descend to Angels Three and switch to tac-comms channel 44. –Your boy is callsign, Armadillo. Over."

"Tailgate 43 Ground Lead, roger that.", Mathias replied from below and astern of the Valkyrie flight, "-Well, Jack- I guess this is us. Don't fly angry now…"

"Hate you like taxes and dental work, Mojo.", Winters replied as the SAR display on his cockpit's central MFD showed the two reduced squadrons of Logans and Spectors dip away with two intact squadrons of Adventurer II attack bombers following at a generous interval.

Mathias and his squadron would now be shuffled into the mix of attack aircraft providing ground support with the particulars of targets determined by the JSTARS in the region. Mojo and his miscreants were now Armadillo's headache to endure.

Winters pushed the annoyance of the preceding tag-team verbal assault upon him out of mind for what it was- a necessary distraction from the strains of impending combat. He too needed to focus now. –He'd hate Mathias like taxes and dental work later, God-willing….

For the moment though, it seemed God might be agreeing to allowing him another day. The wanton violence and murder in the region appeared to be taking place at ground level. Only a handful of bandits were to be seen in Kill Box Seven, and those were being engaged vigorously by a superior number of ASC-AF Phantom fighters.

Winters' intuition kept optimism in balance though- there was too much work being done by both human and alien armies on the ground to think that the skies would be empty for long. He did embrace however the hope that whatever was going on above would hold the Zentraedi's interest for a while.

Others were clearly having thoughts along the same lines as Major Grim from Dalton's flight demonstrated without warning.

"-Jack, do you figure the Fleet's coming back?"

Whatever it was that was inflicting clear damage on the Zentraedi in orbit and had them stirred up like angry hornets _had_ to involve the REF, but…

"Haven't a clue more than you, Reaper. Sorry to say, my gut says _no._ It's hard to imagine they'd just show up with the intent of staying and not coordinate with the poor bastards on the ground. –This is just a hell of a lightshow for all. -Maybe something a little more."

"Damn, are _you_ a buzz-kill.", Vice muttered reproachfully, "I think Buster dislocated your optimism or something, Jack."

"Where've you been, Vice?", Dalton responded in the squadron commander's defense, "Everyone knows Jack traded in his optimism for cynicism years ago."

"-I was downsizing my emotional availability.", Winters added blandly, "It was part of the package deal. –It doesn't figure into a thing here though. The lot of you are still going to have to work, not pawn it off on the Fleet chaps."

Vice convincingly feigned genuine disgust and annoyance, saying, "-Well, if I wanted to actually _work_ , I wouldn't have joined the damn Air Force, would'a I?"

It was good for a laugh anyway.

" _Tailgate, Tailgate- Berserker Actual, what's the ETA on those goddamn med-evacs and slicks?! Over!"_

By the raw burn in his throat, Major Gunston could tell he was yelling- though his ears could not confirm this for the sharp ringing that persisted in them. His Gen-1 Gladiator had with its additional armor applique plates done more than seemed physically possible to preserve the company commander's life over the course of the day. Gunston had stopped counting at a dozen the direct hits by missile or particle beam the mecha had sustained and had kept trudging along to his command- and this had not been counting more minor damage.

-But, he was still here, and though with only three Hydra rockets, a single Sabre missile, and 345 rounds in the ammunition pack that belt-fed his battered GU-11 gun pod he was still in the fight despite having lost the Gladiator's left arm sometime before.

The only problem was that he, and what remained of his company and Hercules Company folded together and under his command was still _here._

Retreat- and there was no point in cloaking the present movement as anything but _retreat_ \- had been ongoing for the better part of the day. The Zentraedi like pit-bull fighting dogs just would _not let go_.

Artillery and missile strikes, close air support, brief reversals on the retreat to attack the alien pursuers, and combinations of all had done little to unclamp the figurative jaws from The Gemini Coalition's dwindling rear guard units. Efforts heroic as they had been to break the pursuit with direct counterattack had yielded no discernable benefit for the sacrifice offered each time. The Zentraedi had simply applied their superior numbers and speed in open terrain to form a salient in each instance, enveloping and neutralizing the blocking forces intent on slowing them.

-And it was a salient that was starting to form around Gunston's mixed company and the hodge-podge of other units he had cobbled together in moving south. A company of MBP-1 Battle Pods, adopted and modified in design by the RDF-Army as a cheaper and easily manufactured mecha while Terran designs were being tested and refined for production had been sent in an hour before to offset the enemy's stubborn and persistent flanking maneuvers – but almost constant contact had reduced them to only a handful now. Those, reduced to use of the particle beam cannons that also was the main armament of the larger force of Regults they were trying to push back were not far from faltering.

The only hint at God's mercy at the moment was that the Zentraedi air cover had seemed to simply evaporate over the course of a few minutes. Others in Gunston's command and random comms traffic that had otherwise been a hindrance in the deteriorating situation had reported some great disturbance in the sky- in low Earth orbit, most likely.

Gunston had made no attempt to visually confirm the event himself, but rather had exploited it for what it was worth.

A diminished enemy air presence meant for the moment stable airspace that the Army would commit choppers to. Gunston had hoped for gunships in addition to medical and taxi birds- but Tailgate had agreed to only ships to carry out the wounded and those forced to abandon their vehicles or mecha.

In truth, Gunston knew that any chopper that arrived was going to be used as a med-evac bird. There were simply too many wounded needing immediate care to use the crew space of a Lakota otherwise. –And there seemed to be an understanding of that too amongst dismounted vehicle crews or mecha drivers who were piling into and on top of anything with tracks or wheels that was still serviceable.

Gunston also knew that the situation would get far worse. There was no turning it around at this point. Eventually the order would come to cut the ravaged rear guard elements loose. They would not be actively abandoned, but at some point Command would have to recognize that resources in personnel and equipment applied to the rear guard were ones that were not going to be recovered and would not be there for future fights of consequence.

-Already, Command had denied Gunston his request for gunships, and both mecha and armor units to the south were drawing away as quickly as their forms of mobility would carry them.

Berserker Company's commander only hoped for his unit and for himself to be deemed assets worth saving and not be in a position to be considered a regrettably acceptable loss when the time came for that call.

"Berserker Actual, Tailgate-. Mercury flight ships inbound, ETA eight minutes. –Stabilize your LZ and pop UV strobes to designate. Over."

"Copy that, Tailgate.", Gunston replied, "Tell Mercury Leader not to stop for coffee-. We've got wounded piled up on wounded down here, and we need `em out. Over."

"Understood, Berserker. Be advised, ground support will be clearing the approaches from the south. – _Keep your people back!_ Over."

Gunston's blood was in full simmer and on the verge of boiling at Tailgate's "advisement". He was certain that nestled into a controller's station aboard a JSTARS aloft somewhere to the south, the direction made sense as it meant only keeping the "friendly" icons on a screen segregated from the "tangos".

It was something more to do it where the rounds were flying.

-But it _was_ sound advice.

"Got it, Tailgate. Get those birds in here! Over."

There was a flash at the left leg knee joint of the micronian Regult from where a particle beam bolt from far to Tahlt's right struck it. The burst of light dissolved into a shower of sparks as the leg buckled, sending the mecha to the ground and ruining the shot Tahlt had been ready to take.

Having committed to depressing the firing trigger, Tahlt found it inexplicably difficult to redirect the aiming reticule on his viewscreen in a wild sweep for another target. He also found it irrationally maddening to see that other Zentraedi Combat Pods- perhaps of the squad he had actually been assigned to command- or not- lingered to fire on the stricken alien mecha and upon the vulnerable micronians who quickly spilled from it. All the while dwindling but still lethal direct energy and projectile fire from micronian mecha and vehicles closer to the enemy's center continued to rake the advance of the unit Tahlt was now attached to.

"- _The mecha will kill you, you fools!_ ", snarled Tahlt who had seen too many times over the past three days Warriors obsessed with killing dismounted micronians who were of no more threat than the trees or rocks of the landscape, "- _Ignore the aliens!"_

Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt recognized that as the enemy unit's avenue of escape to the south was being closed off, that it was no longer a skirmish in any organized sense of the term. It was becoming a killing frenzy on both sides, and that there would be no directing it as Zentraedi Warriors in small groups or fractured units came into direct contact with micronians whose chain of command was likely in no better condition.

Tahlt's only concern through the conclusion of this particularly meaningless engagement was suddenly just _survival_ for which numbers were a desirable advantage.

A cluster of Regults, not moving in anything resembling a formation, rushed across Tahlt's field of view and arc of fire- rushing to engage a target or targets not immediately clear to the sub-lieutenant.

As they passed, the leading Regult's forward hull expelled a small spray of flame and sparks as a larger plume carried out from the rear with the same peculiar occurrence befalling a second Combat Pod in close trail of the first. Unlikely as it seemed, Tahlt's mind grasped the fact that it was a single projectile that had passed through _both_ Regults that went to ground as a tumbling mass of tangling legs.

A sweep of the land revealed the inflicting party of the singular stroke of dual execution to Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt, though it could have as easily been missed.

Squat, and low to the ground the angular micronian vehicle did not appear to rise even to the height of a Regult's knee. Fine details were difficult for Tahlt to make out with the smoke that clouded much of the field and the flash of the fusillade of particle beam bolts that the companions of the two destroyed Regults unleashed upon the micronian war machine.

As bursts and towers of sparks leapt off its sloped hull, Tahlt was able to glimpse the additional detail that it was riding on tracks, and that there was a single turret equally angular to the rest of the vehicle's hull with a menacing gun tube protruding- and this was traversing to continue to engage.

Tahlt had heard other Warriors in other units throughout the day make mention of the "iron beetle" and that though unsophisticated in appearance, it was an enemy to be feared. This had to be the same type of micronian vehicle.

The "iron beetle" rocked back in a counter-play of immense force versus great weight as the muzzle of the gun tube flashed blue with a static-electric spark. It had not recovered from its own gun's recoil when a third Regult in the group that had been reduced to five shattered at the side and rear hull seams with an immense explosion delivered with a single projectile.

Undeterred, _four_ Regults now pressed the attack against the heavily armored, tracked vehicle that was proving to be every bit as indestructible as it was ugly. Its forward hull glowed at points where particle beams had chewed out craters into the sloping armor of its foredeck and turret front but with little effect other than affirming the rumors spread through Warriors' talk.

Determination of whether the Regults would collectively overwhelm the micronian armored vehicle, or if the iron beetle would eliminate the persistent Warriors one by one was a question that would not be answered as two torrent-streams of energy bolts sawed through the four mecha from an angle above and to their right, felling the last of the squad with a single sweep.

Aware suddenly of the danger, Tahlt wheeled his own Regult right to engage but found that the attacking aircraft- equally absurd in appearance as the iron beetle, only rounded forward like the toe of a boot from what he could see of their shapes as they climbed rapidly away- were serving their own agenda. Their presence though marked a change in the battle though. Tahlt had seen these aircraft and others like them at work on numerous occasions now. Though few, they were a great equalizing force for the enemy and were to be feared.

The original candidates slain and left burning in the field as the iron beetle they had engaged quickly resumed a southward course, Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt was again in need of companions and resumed the search in a rising sea of Regults around him. He preferred Warriors with some of the sense he had rapidly acquired, but if not- those who could lower his odds of being killed by their numbers would do just as well.

"Tailgate, Cavalier One- scratch four to the western side of our friendlies.", Mathias reported as he pulled his Logan onto its back, out of the near vertical climb he and his wingman had used to disengage, and back into level flight where a half-roll righted them both, "You're thick with dittos down there. What are we holding off for? Over."

"Cavalier One, Tailgate-. _Spoiler alert_ \- we're building target density for a nape strike. Helos are three minutes out. We'll cook the landscape before they arrive and have them out under your cover before the enemy can cross the line. –Need you to withdraw south and stand by. You'll be clearing the path of mecha for the choppers and our ground forces. Over."

"Thanks for the insight, Tailgate.", Mathias replied, finding his Logans and Spectors in orbit six kilometers southeast- waiting, as Tailgate had described, "-And I was starting to worry we'd have to ad-lib. Over."

"No chance of that, Cavalier One. Watch for the choppers inbound at low level. Over."

Turning south, Mathias could see the A-9C Adventurer II attack bombers descending and moving into the airspace above the pocket of Gemini Coalition ground forces whose boundaries were defined clearly at lines west, north, and east where the visible fire was directed toward the salient's center. Working to maintain the division of forces, the RDF-AF A-9Cs began to launch the Hellfire and Sabre missiles that accounted for a portion of their substantial weapons load.

Mathias would see the flash of rocket ignition, or multiple ignitions, beneath the wings of aircraft followed at several seconds by a corresponding detonation burst somewhere in the Zentraedi ranks below. These were joined by rippling patters of detonations that seemed to follow the lines of force division as Mathias had perceived them. This show provided by the Adventurer IIs' cluster bombs and groupings of small-diameter bombs whose deployment had been invisible to the Logan pilot in the darkness lay down the lines that the attack bombers seemed to dare the enemy to cross.

-And by Tailgate's foretelling, Mathias knew that there was more to come. He could sense WSOs coordinating the distribution and dispersal of the plasma napalm missiles that their aircraft carried. When preparations were ready and the conditions right- Mathias did not envy the position of the Zentraedi who had not heeded the firm warnings made repeatedly.

It would not end the night's work, but Mathias hoped it would at least provide his squadron credit in menace that he could capitalize on to clear a path for the battered rear guard units below. It had a promise of success at any rate.

It was then that noticed the apocalyptic light show in the heavens above had ceased.

-And this troubled him for reasons that he did not want to think on at any length….

Eight kilometers out one patch of darkened desert landscape looked pretty much the same as another, augment the view how you liked with IR and image intensification technology.

What allowed First Lieutenant Inid "Skeeter" Bradley to identify the particular patch of desert she was leading her flight of Lakotas to was the distinction that it was the point on the horizon where fire was either pouring in or radiating outward. A distinct blip of UV light, visible only through an image intensification system, and pulsing once per second with perfect regularity was also of great use. The marker strobe would guide the nine choppers scrambled with short notice to make a final effort to evacuate wounded unable to the "fluid" LZ in a final effort to extract wounded too badly injured to evacuate by other means. –That was simple.

The getting in and out was going to be the challenge.

"Mercury One, this is Cavalier One-.", called a strong, clear voice with a faded but not eliminated New England accent, "I've got eyes on you on approach. We'll be your cover on the ground and on your way out, so get in and do what you need to do. Don't waste time looking over your shoulder- that's what we're here for. –Just don't get too close to the perimeter-. Over."

"Cavalier One, Mercury One- call me Skeeter.", Bradley replied, "-Thanks, and what perimeter?"

Bradley's optical enhancement systems reacted, dimming their intensification of ambient light before rising towers of flame on the nearing horizon could blind her. In the prolonged moment of detonating plasma napalm warheads, Bradley could see jostling the deeply piled ranks of Zentraedi mecha trying to close on a center of mixed RDF-Army mecha and equipment. The closest lines and those doused directly with the airburst spray of plasma gel either evaporated or seemed to melt into the land that simultaneously combusted. Those not destroyed in the heat retreated- the haste of their retreat determined by how closely they had brushed with incineration.

The intense heat would provide a physical barrier to the enemy for some minutes, but minutes only. This would be all the time Bradley and her pilots would have.

"-Nevermind, Cavalier One- I think I can connect the dots."

"The winds are going to be wicked in and out, Skeeter.", Cavalier One warned with good cause, "Watch yourself. –And call me Mojo."

"Copy that, Mojo-.", Bradley replied as a mild buffeting of turbulence began some three kilometers out. It was the convectional uplift from the flames sucking cooler air into their intensity and sending them in superheated currents skyward.

-Which reminded the Lakota pilot-.

"Tell me you're in good with our top cover, Mojo. We didn't see a single bandit the whole way in, and I'm a superstitious girl."

"-We've got some history, Skeeter."

"Good to know."

The air was growing rougher as the open path to the marked LZ yawned at Bradley like the gates of Hell itself, and in quelling the nerve-soothing small talk to focus on flying, she noticed that her relative land speed had risen significantly over her indicated airspeed. The inferno it seemed was sucking her sinful soul in.

"Mercury Flight, open your intervals to ten ship lengths- it's going to be like flying into a hurricane in there, so don't bunch up!"

Bradley was still getting used to giving warnings of the obvious and not receiving them. Her squadron had arrived early the day before to the Durango operational area with a full sixteen ships in the unit, and under the command of an officer senior to herself.

SAR work had been the duty they had been assigned, and one they had trained for- but as the battlefront had deteriorated and the Zentraedi's aggressiveness had escalated off the scale it had been a dangerous one to be employed in. It had been different from flying into "hot zones" occupied by malcontent Zentraedi or lawless, Outlander human types whom Bradley had operated around for going on three years now.

In fighting Zentraedi regulars, even their infantry weaponry had the punch to bring a Lakota down- and the aliens saw in them an easy and appealing target.

"We're all set back here, Lieutenant.", Bradley's crew chief, Chief Warrant Officer Wilcox said from his chair up through the passage into the cockpit, "-Just don't take off before I'm back aboard, please…"

"Barry", Bradley said to her chief over the Lakota's intercom channel, "-The other pilots got briefed the same and are spelling it out to their crews now too. –The medics in the LZ have triaged, but you don't load anyone who looks like they're clinging by a thread. We don't have the space to give to anyone who's likely to die in transit. You got it?"

Wilcox was quiet for a moment but then replied without signs of disobedience, "-That's fucked up."

"All sorts of fucked-up happening today. –We load who we can save and then motor-. _Savvy?"_

"Roger that, ma'am."

The walls of flame that had gone up a minute or so before with a blast of heat like the door of a furnace being thrown open were now moderating to a mean treetop height whose cast glow was softer and gave the arid terrain an eerie, dreamlike quality. A wind had suddenly risen, riding up on the currents of hot air- but it was a wind that brought no relief to anyone within the blazing perimeter.

Corporal Garner whose BDUs were already sweat-soaked beneath his body armor despite the protective equipment's temperature regulation system, and the hot wind did little to comfort. His MOS as a gunner on a fighting vehicle had been rendered moot when a ditto missile had struck the engine compartment of his ride- wrecking the fighting vehicle but sparing the crew for the moment. Within ten minutes as RDF-Army Destroids pushed back and forth with Zentraedi Battle Pods over the ground Garner and his vehicle's crew had been pinned down in, it was only Garner and Moss who remained alive.

Garner had become a "volunteer medic" after fireman carrying Moss after extensive search and a great bit of luck to an improvised first aid station set up beside a trackless and immobile Cavalier tank whose solid hull provided a lee of fire from at least one direction.

Garner had assumed full responsibility for the first aid station from Sergeant Palmer, the only true medic working the first aid station, minutes after. –The tank after all provided cover from only _one_ direction as was evident by the standard-issue, mylar emergency thermal blanket that covered both pieces of Palmer in his place along the row of the dead, beside Moss.

If Garner was grateful of anything related to his brief stint with the medic's trade, it was that Palmer had made it clear to Garner and a handful of "walking wounded" whose names the medic clearly did not know even after enlisting them in his service what exactly needed to be done. Palmer had repeated it over and over with almost machine-like exactness of the words said over and over, and specificity in the tasks and actions to be taken. –So much so that Garner found himself repeating the instructions in his head only moments after a stray round or random bit of shrapnel had bisected Palmer just above the waist.

The most critical, stabilized wounded were lined shoulder-to-shoulder in a row. Rifles stood between every other patient, muzzle-down, anchored in the earth by their bayonets and serving to hold elevated bags of plasma that provided a stopgap for many of them from bleeding out. These were to be loaded for med-evac first, and their states made known to the ranking medic in the evacuation effort.

Three times the number of severely but not immediately life-critical wounded were then to be loaded for ferrying to the undetermined treatment site that was farther at least from the immediate danger of the enemy.

The third group of wounded had less specific instructions attached to them collectively and for reasons that Palmer had not wanted to discuss explicitly.

Each young man or woman in the third group had an "X" in bold marker drawn on their forehead. Laid out with every effort to provide what comfort could be provided lying on the sun-hardened dirt, they had all been given more than their allotment of morphine, at the cost in some cases of depriving lesser wounded with the pain-eradicating drug.

" _They're gone-._ ", Palmer had said stabbing at the radial vein of a soldier whose face he had not even looked at, demonstrating to Garner how to administer morphine with the last of three syrettes, "-Just let the drugs do their work and move on."

Those with more minor wounds had either been waved away by Palmer and told to move on, or tossed a first-aid pack with the implication of treating themselves.

-This had been the tutelage in Army field medicine by Sergeant Palmer to Corporal Garner before he had become a member of the _fourth_ group laid out near the first aid station.

Now as the downwash of a low-passing Lakota clouded the air with dust and heat-desiccated plant matter, Garner's mind suddenly and unexpectedly shifted gears. When the wounded were loaded, what then?

The question was too large to grapple with at the moment.

Mastered expertly by its pilot in the conflicting cross-winds created by the encircling plasma fires, the Lakota made a tight, graceful turn to port that brought it to the point where the pilot had selected to touch down. Somewhere overhead and through the muffling beat of the chopper's rotor blades, jet engines ripped the air in passing. From the north, the dark of the sky was dashed by the zip of particle beam bolts whose target or targets was not apparent.

From beyond the northern wall of flame laid down by friendly air support minutes earlier, a half-dozen, maybe more, explosions rocked the landscape under the roar of jet engines climbing rapidly away.

The Lakota's crew chief spilled out of the open side door before the wheels of the "slick" configured helicopter had fully accepted the weight of the craft. He spared no time in moving directly to Garner who supposed in succeeding to command of the ragged first-aid detail had also inherited from Palmer some appearance of authority.

" _You honcho?_ "

The corporal nodded his affirmation, shouting over the same rotor noise, " _Garner, Chief…"_

" _I don't give a shit what your mama calls you, Corporal- get your goddamn detail loadin' wounded, NOW! -You triaged, right?_ "

Garner found his moth filling with the grit whirling through the air and only then realized how dry and thirsty he'd become through the course of his medical education, " _Yeah- done!"_

" _Then let's get `em aboard while there's still someplace to get `em back to!_ "

Garner found that the other "medics" Palmer had impressed into service before parting ways with the living were already lifting and moving the critically wounded with the best balance of speed and care that they could manage.

The crew chief, seeing his aircraft taking on its load without his guidance turned his back abruptly to Garner to resume his primary duties and maintain control.

Garner seized the other man's shoulder just as he was reaching the edge of arm's length, stopping him, and yelled into his ear- " _Can we get a lift outta here with you, Chief?.."_

The crew chief did not even attempt to look back, saying, " _Not a fucking chance._ "

Three additional Lakotas has come to ground forming a line that reached north and with more coming in for the purpose of extracting the wounded.

Perhaps, Garner hoped, there would be room on a later one.

Mathias watched with a considerable measure of satisfaction as the oversized squad of Battle Pods that had decided to test and probe the northern boundary of the salient was shown the error in their thinking by a single element of Spectors from the squadron that had been attached to his Crimson Cavaliers. The ditto mecha that had correctly sensed a "thin" area in the ring of human mecha and fighting vehicles encircling the improvised chopper LZ had been slain quickly with Hydra rocket and Jaguar missile fire, but their boldness was indicative of what Mathias assumed the prevailing Zentraedi motivation to be. They were testing the approaches and looking for a way in. –And if not "in", at least a vantage point from which to continue the fight at a distance.

They already knew from fierce attacks by both the Spectors, Mathias's Logans, and even the Adventurer IIs whose last ordinance had been spent countering enemy movement that closing the southern approach to the LZ carried a price that they were unwilling to pay. Patience seemed to be prevailing mostly that the plasma napalm barriers would burn out, and that then not even the Gemini airpower would be able to hold them back.

-There were exceptions like the one just dealt with that Mathias knew needed to be managed. For now, the best he could hope to do was to manage the enemy around the west, north, and east perimeter lines.

-What he would, or even _could_ do once this turned into a running battle again was a _later_ problem.

"Good shooting, Panthers.", Mathias said in honest praise, the expenditure and aim of rocket and missile having been exactly correct by the Spector pilots, "-But save some. We've got a long night ahead. Over."

"Roger that, Cavalier One. We'll be frosty and fresh for the last dance too. Over."

Mathias was certain that at least in spirit, they would be. ASC-Air Force only tossed the keys to pilots who had fire in their bellies. What couldn't be known was how many "dances" there would be between this and the last. –It was going to be one fight at a time, Mathias was sure.

Above, _high_ above and to the east there was a twin flash that the squadron leader's trained eye recognized as definite missile detonations showing that Winters and his miscreants were not asleep at the stick somewhere aloft.

All traces of the orbital melee that had overarched the ground support package's infiltration into the area were gone now, only the dark and star-studded sky reaching from horizon to horizon to be seen. The details of the melee were still a curiosity to Mathias, but more than that its subsidence was making him increasingly uneasy.

"Good hits- _scratch two._ ", Captain Israel "Isn't" Cohen called as his tactical MFD showed a lethal meeting of his two Basilisk missiles, and the pair of Gnerls that had been skirting the kill box earlier and had elected to cross the invisible line making them fair game to engage without additional authorization.

"Confirm that, Knight Hawk Eleven-.", said the combat air controller seated at a console amongst other CAC consoles aboard the AWACS "Desperado" hundreds of kilometers south, "Chalk up two."

"Piglet, you're up.", Dalton said, reminding Vought needlessly that for limited engagements he had dibs on the next bandits to come poking around.

"Looking forward to that, Buster.", Vought replied, "-They're still paying for one Valkyrie and an inch of my vertical presence the way I see it."

The squadron was on its second "round" cycling through the pilots providing the conservative response to enemy intrusion into the kill box. It was the best method to conserving ordinance in the face of the uncertain. Knight Hawk Squadron had left the ground heavily armed for air-to-air work, but as Durango base was being stripped of its munitions that were being moved for the supposed "next stage of the fight" further south, this was not the condition of all fighters taking to the air.

Both RDF-AF and Southern Cross Air Force fighters pulling escort duty for the incessant cycle of cargo flights arriving at Durango empty and departing after hasty loading south were armed in the most limited sense of the word.

It was nothing less than rationing of weapons to the fight that remained, and conserving for anticipated fights to come. –And it was clear where the emphasis lay.

"Jack, did we say something _wrong_ , or something?...", Dalton asked unexpectedly, "Aren't combat ops usually supposed to involve the _enemy_? -I'm starting to feel like we've been stood up on a blind date-."

"Wouldn't know.", Winters replied checking his tactical MFD and finding that the dozen or so Gnerls that Desperado was tracking were either far north or west running the coastline- all far too distant to engage without a reckless chase well outside of Knight Hawk Squadron's assigned airspace and not worth the effort in the final analysis. –But Dalton was right, the enemy's total disappearance was disquieting.

"-Personally, I've never been stood up on a blind date…"

"You've never been _set up on one_ , Jack.", Vice prodded.

"-My own wingman.", Winters muttered, "Twice in one day even…"

"-And that's unfair, Vice.", Preacher chimed in from Dalton's flight section, " _Blind_ dates are the only kind Jack can get."

Winters like the pilots under his command, never having allowed the time-passing potshots to draw his mind off mission, noted that the flight of Lakota helicopters was one by one beginning to take to the air again- presumably loaded with their critical cargo of wounded. Mathias's support package was starting to break the counter-rotating inner and outer rings of the wagon wheel orbit they had created and were maintaining a kilometer or so outside of the perimeter that had been established initially with plasma napalm. As the spools of attack aircraft unraveled, they began to form a broad line that they would hold at low altitude, sweeping the land before the Lakota flight like a custodian's broom on the same relative course as the Adventurer IIs had already egressed. Knight Hawk Squadron would keep the air above secure. –Assuming there were bandits to secure it from.

"-Preacher's mistaken. I only _take_ blind dates. By evening's end I've usually kicked a dog at least twice and have a tin cup full of spare change to show for it."

"Knight Hawk One, Desperado- stand by for vector change.", an AWACS air controller hailed, "-Mercury Flight is now _outbound_. Assume course one-six-nine at Angels four. Maintain a lid on Mercury Flight- formation and intervals, your call. –Oh, and on a personal note, Knight Hawk One, there's a _special_ circle of Hell waiting just for you. Over."

"Desperado, Hawk One. –Copy that on both.", Winters replied, "Buster, put your element static over Mercury Flight in a fluid four. I'll borrow your odd section to run a ten kilometer circuit with my flight. Turn left onto one-six-nine and ascend to-."

The sound that Winters had been both expecting and dreading overrode his issuing of orders to the squadron- the quick, double- _beep_ of a new radar contact. –And it was followed by another, and another, and _another_ until the alert sounds began to bleed into a steady, electronic chirping and with each mingled report _clusters_ of radar contacts at all points of the clock around Winters' tactical MFD screen.

The bandits, those that had withdrawn from the terrestrial battlespace with the onset of the orbital battle coming up on twenty minutes before as well as many more that likely sortied from orbiting vessels were now coming _down_ like the Wormwood prophecy itself.

Winters, afraid to take his eyes off the tactical display still stole a quick glance at the screen showing his fighter's remaining ordinance stores. Six Basilisks remaining out of an initial load of eight, and six Furies and eight Asps for the possibility of dogfighting before he would be gun-fighting. Loaded identically at wheels-up, the other Valkyries of Knight Hawk Squadron now varied between their full load and being down slightly as Winters was- all of which would have made for a fair fight against one or two squadrons of Gnerls, certainly, and up to four possibly.

-But this….

The knot formed in Winters' gut like a croquet ball as InfoLink showed what his radar alone could not- a ceiling of Gnerl Fighter Pods and "Green Bandit" power armor falling on the entire region.

"Desperado, Knight Hawk One- we're going to need some SAM support for this scrap, I'm afraid. Clear a corridor for me, and we'll do our best to keep it open. Over."

"Knight Hawk One, Desperado. Stand by. Over."

Winters felt cold panic as the altitude indications for Zentraedi squadrons continued to plummet. There was no sign that any particular bandit unit was lining his Valkyries up to engage, or that at their extreme altitude that they were even aware of the Gemini flight below- but that many fighters would not miss a target of opportunity as inviting as a mixed flight of fighters and attack aircraft shepherding a reduced squadron of woefully slow utility choppers.

"Desperado, Hawk One- _standing by has thirty seconds of life as an option here! Get some damn SAMs in the air and vector us to the nearest goddamn support! Over!"_

"Hawk One, Desperado. – _Stand by_. Over."

Winters searched the skies seeing target indicator boxes through his helmet visor that seemed to rival the stars in number. It wasn't quite the final stand against immeasurable odds that he'd envisioned once or twice as ways out of life that were preferable to rotting in a retired officers' facility- because in those visions he'd stood the chance of lasting more than a minute in the fight. –But one only had the options that one had in life, do what one might.

At least it would be preferable to die in a fight than waiting for an AWACS air controller to decide on the best way for him to check out.

"Cavalier One, Hawk One-. What are you packing for an air brawl?"

"Two dogfighting missiles apiece and _my girthy cock_.", Mathias replied short-winded. The smart-ass tone of their last exchange had dried up on the double-quick, and Winters was grateful at least that the ASC-AF pilot was sounding as panicked as he felt.

"What's the play?"

Winters found himself at a loss, "Slash and stab-. ECM jam hard and stay in close with my chaps- we'll help cover until we get in close. Then we open them up to you, and you go at `em with guns at close range. We'll keep at that until-."

Mathias interjected understanding completely, "Yeah- _until._ – _I still don't like you, Winters.."_

"Still hate you like taxes and dental work, Mathias.", Winters replied- it being as close to a heartfelt a goodbye as any.

 _Goodbyes_ were a jinx, and Winters would not be saying any to his pilots nor would he tolerate hearing any from them. If any of them were to feel a jolt and see a flash of light followed by finding themselves in the company of long-dead relatives, then that was fine. –But saying goodbye was tantamount to predicting _defeat_ , and _predicting_ defeat was the first step towards getting there….

-And Winters just didn't have the stomach for it besides….

"Knight Hawk One, Desperado. Vector one-eight-zero true and ascend to Angels twenty. Proceed on assigned heading at full throttle and you should be under SAM cover of battery _Buzz Saw_ before bandits can engage. Over."

Winters felt a surge of relief that a means of escape had been discovered, but this rush was as short-lived as it had been intense. Checking his tactical display he found the joined SAM companies with the common callsign "Buzz Saw" just over 190Km south. Their umbrella of protection extended north of Durango Base, but it was going to be a race to get under it before the Gnerls could start hurling missiles at Winters' pilots.

"Desperado, Knight Hawk One. Cavalier and Panther flights may take honorable mentions at the finish line, but that's leaving Mercury flight without top cover. Recommend diverting additional fighters to this area. Over."

"Received, understood, and denied Knight Hawk One. Ascend to Angels twenty and take heading one-eight-zero true. Do this _now_. Over."

It clicked suddenly with Winters what was being said, and the realization was icy.

"Desperado, there are _nine helos with wounded_ down there, we'd be leaving them naked."

"Understood, Knight Hawk One. _Follow your orders_. Mercury flight will return to base under terrain masking and with Desperado's ECM cover. Flying at under fifty meters, Red Bandits will have a hard time acquiring them anyway- _you know that._ Over."

"That's horseshit, Desperado!", Mathias chimed in, having dialed in on the C2 frequency assigned to Knight Hawk Squadron, probably to discuss the next move with him, Winters surmised, _"-Winters, if we go, it's as good as sending them into the slaughter chute ourselves."_

The incorporeal entity of Desperado took on a new voice, stern and uncompromising.

"Knight Hawk One, Cavalier One, this is Desperado Actual. _You will_ egress the area as ordered _immediately_. Fighters and combat aircraft have been designated a Tier One asset, and if suicide is your intent you _will not_ use a Valkyrie as an eighty-five million credit noose. _Am I clear, Knight Hawk One?!_ "

Over the course of the exchange with Desperado, Mercury flight had already fallen fifteen kilometers aft despite moving at the top attainable airspeed of the Lakota. The ceiling of Red Bandits with an intermixing of Green Bandits had descended another ten thousand meters and would be detecting the RDF and ASC aircraft under Durango's C2 authority soon.

" _-Winters?!.."_ , Mathias demanded, audibly teetering on the line between _fight_ and _flight._

"Knight Hawks, keep it loose and ready on me-. Go full throttle and ascend to Angels twenty. Mathias, your Spectors aren't going to keep up, but get them to keep their foot on the gas and they should scrape by."

"- _Jack?.._ ", Dalton protested, sounding prepared to wage a futile campaign of argument.

" _It's okay, Buster_ -.", Winters said feeling his throat tighten suddenly to which he told himself it was the dryness of the air through his facemask, "This is _my order_ , not _your decision._ "

Nothing else was said as Winters eased up the throttles and pulled the control stick back, putting _Marilyn_ into a climb with the other Valkyries keeping combat formation.

There was nothing to be said as everyone knew it was _not okay_.

It was just the way it was and nothing more.

 **ASC Durango Base**

General Leonard stood in the doorway of Operations Center, his banquet table-sized, detailed topographical map whose northern boundary showed the Rio Grande River and whose other extreme terminated south below Panama rolled and sleeved in a tube beneath his arm.

Three hours before, this most fortified and secure chamber of the deeply seated, subterranean command bunker had been alive with the voices and sounds of the command and control of a major military operation being played out in inter-related vignettes across more than two dozen duty stations with a combined staffing of nearly one hundred.

Now, the chamber looked much like any of steel-reinforced concrete, save perhaps the extensive metal framework whose computer systems, high-resolution flat screen monitors, components, and kilometers of wires and fiber-optic cable. These had been disassembled, transferred to ruggedized shipping crates, and moved on to transports for relocation faster than the staff themselves. Only the ceiling mounted LED lighting remained providing strong illumination to nothing.

Rapid displacement and relocation had been a contingency built into the Operation Center's design- Leonard saw this as nothing more than exercising the option by necessity. –And like any good commanding officer, he was here to be the last boots on this ground, taking his map and flag with him as he went.

Leonard would be at the center of the deteriorating situation again in minutes, courtesy of his Gemini Coalition partners in the RDF-Air Force, and the very equipment and staff that surrounded him in this Operations Center would be in place and waiting for him when he arrived at the next. –Operations went on.

He was certain that he would return to this place again- though less sure of when that would be. Too much was unknown, too many factors uncertain, but he had faith that occupation campaigns favored the occupiers less and less as time dragged on. –And already, there were indications that the enemy was making mistakes that Leonard knew how to use to his advantage.

But victory would not be easy under the most ideal conditions, and it would not be won this day.

 _Patience_ and _perseverance_ would be qualities much in demand in the coming months- perhaps years…

An infantry detail assigned to safeguard critical personnel in transit arrived in the corridor outside of the Operations Center with an air of purpose about them whose substance Leonard already knew.

"General, sir-.", the captain commanding said respectfully but firmly, "We need to get you to the air field _now_ , sir. The JSTARs is prepped and warming up, and we're receiving word that the regional airspace is becoming volatile. Please come with us now, sir."

Leonard closed the heavy blast door to the Operations Center with the same sentimentality he would have applied to closing the door of his backyard tool shed.

He would see this place again.

"Let's go then, Captain."

1007


End file.
